End to Begin
by sistersin7
Summary: A type of "what happened next", in 6 parts (but 7 chapters). Starts in the not-too-distant-future and is canon compliant. This is a B&W, so there be angst. But there also be good times (and some fluff, too). Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy the ride. (Huge thanks to Roadie and Rachel452 for all the feedback and support, and Redlance for the good intentions).
1. Chapter 1: 160 (Prologue)

Chapter One: 160 (Prologue)

We've been in the UK for over a week now, and she is intent on seeing it through my impossible eyes, with my impossible perspective. We started in London, in the lesser known parts I occupied in my life before the bronze.

It's rather fascinating how dialogic a city is to its inhabitants. How _it_ , a vast, inanimate cluster of architecture and infrastructure responds to the will of the people that pump through its streets like blood cells in veins. How it bends to their will without moving. How it changes without changing. London felt different to me this time.

I struggle to remember being here last time – shortly after the bronze. My mind is a blur with the events of the first few months, and even first few years. I remember what I had done, I can recall it in intricate, vivid detail. But the emotion behind my actions, the logic – they melt into a chaotic mess of colour and sound, overwhelming, all consuming, and I could not make sense of it.

Until I let her in.

I let her in and she took away the doubt, the darkness and the terrifying totality of being consumed whole by a whirlpool of grief and anger. She didn't take them away, as such. She took some of their weight from my consciousness onto hers. Now, on occasions I cannot see where I am or what surrounds me, I know I am not alone. I know she is with me.

And lighter I feel when I am with her. I have felt it more over these past few days, as she walks with me through my history. Being with her in England, in London, is as though I recently won the war I was waging against my _other_ self. I walk and talk her through the battlefields with the pleasure, duty and honour of rewriting my own history as victor. It's a hard task, recounting my life of over a century ago, but not because of how much London or England had changed. Not even because I had changed.

It's a hard task because she distracts me so.

I found, during our long walks across the city that I was less interested in regaling stories of old and more interested in watching her. The details I noticed are ones I had noticed before, painted to memory over the 12 years we have been at each other's side. Yet recently, they strike me anew: her cocky grin when she jokes and the flare of her nostrils when she's embarrassed; her preference to place her hand on her hip when she waits and how her right shoulder drops as she re-aligns her centre of gravity; the natural quirk in her eyebrow; how she scans a room and a situation, making sense and quick judgements that can save a life, or just time. These show in abundance in a _city_ : too many people, too many moving parts, too many interactions and mis-interactions.

We left London two days ago, steadily moving outwards, away from _city_. As we move away from crowded masses into rolling, green hills, her demeanour changes, her movements change.

Yesterday we investigated Woking. How dull and dreary a subject Woking is when she walks beside me in all her glory. Head held high, hair pinned back by the frame of her sunglasses. Her hands are loose at her sides so her strides are more fluid, more cat-like. I told her that and she chortled. Snorted, even. Utterly unladylike.

It made my heart sing and I beamed at her, shy and quiet. Utterly unlike me.

She noticed. She always notices.

Today we are heading west. She has been driving for over an hour, happily humming to music and exclaiming the beauty of the landscapes we are driving through. The Wiltshire countryside and its demure wilderness have changed little over the past century, but - much like yesterday and the day before that (and the ones that preceded those) - I only have eyes for her.

In an ironic turn of the tables, it is I who does the staring these days, especially during this trip. I find myself watching her _be_ and memories of her greet me as my mind meanders. While she is busy moving us across England, I can't tear away from her.

When she bobs her head to the rhythm of the music her curls obey with a slight delay. Every few shakes of a head one specific, defiant strand falls loose and slides across her forehead. She then quirks her brow – raising it clearly above the thick rim of her glasses, as if _it_ could persuade the errant curl to move back. And when that fails, she rakes it back with the fingers of her right hand, firm and unforgiving, she lifts the wayward curl and tucks it back with a shove, perhaps this time it will keep in its place for longer.

She wears glasses more often now, possibly because I had commented on how much I like her librarian look. To all and sundry, however, she insists she is following Doctors Orders: after her incident, she has been spending considerably less time in the field and much more time in offices, in front of screens and with the movers and shakers of our secretive, wondrous world.

Irrespective of _why_ she wears them, I like her glasses and like her in them. As if able to tap into my thoughts, she adjusts her them, glances quickly in my direction and smiles.

"Are you enjoying any of this?" she questions, deliberately leaving the subject of her question ambiguous.

"More than you realise, darling," I answer softly and adjust the angle at which I sit to have a better view of her.

She gives me another quick glance and laughs out loud, a booming exclamation of joy.

"God, Helena, you are starting to sound your age," she says as the right corner of her mouth is turned up to a lascivious grin and she shakes her head.

"How do you mean?" I retort, slightly offended. "How exactly, pray tell, does a one hundred and sixty year old sound?"

Her grin widens and flashes white teeth, her bottom lip stretches over them, her dimples deepen, "dirty, old –" she starts.

"Man?" I finish her quip for her.

"Well... No," she smiles wider, if that's even possible, "thank god for that".

"Thank god indeed," I answer and inhale deeply. I lean forward, placing the pad of my forefinger at the top of her shoulder, tracing it down her bicep - ever so lightly - and back up the side of her arm. She responds by flexing said muscle and her grip on wheel tightens. I drag my finger down the back of her arm, fingernail scratching the fabric of her jacket, falling just short of the outskirts of her breast.

I lean back and my hand falls in my lap. Her cheeks, round and high on her cheekbones, redden slightly, and I conjure a memory.

 _She is hovering above me, hanging mid-air; chest, neck and cheeks flushed, lips swollen and red. Her green eyes burn brightly in a tame smile that is a striking contrast to the warm tones of her skin. She is straining slightly, prompted up by her arms. My fingers creeps up them, towards her shoulders as she eases herself gently onto me and kisses me deeply with her eyes never leaving mine. She fills me with warmth and joy, desire and desperation all at once, and I am overwhelmed by all of them at once as her tongue sweeps across my lips. I gasp, then moan then close my eyes._

This memory of a kiss is but from last night. Yet, I have dozens of other memories, similar to this one, memories shared over the past decade. Memories I so easily re-live.

The passing of time marred little of her appearance - a few more laugh lines strewn across her face, a handful more dimples than she had sported when we first met. Her hair, unruly as ever, longer than ever.

She takes a deep breath and looks at me from above the rim of those glasses of hers. "You shouldn't be doing that when I'm driving," she mock scalds me. "It's hard enough to keep to the left side of the road without your…" she pauses for a deep breath, "wandering hand eliciting memories of nights past".

I lower my eyes for the first time in hours to look at my hands. "I cannot recall ever being requested to keep my hands to myself so poetically," I stretch my palms onto my thighs. "Don't you know how hard it is to keep my hands idle when I'm so close to you? When we are alone?"

"In the interest of safety, Helena, please," she says, still smiling. "You know I'd have let your hands work their magic if we had time."

My core trembles at her suggestion; I catch my bottom lip between my teeth.

She takes a deep breath, pushing away stray lustful tendrils. "But we are on a schedule today," she says and straightens in her seat.

If she were any bit less serious I would have forced her to stop the car and taken her. But I know her tone all too well, I know her use of words: she means business. We must reach our destination and only there and then she will allow herself to be had.

Oh, and have her I shall.

But for now, in the interest of safety, I tuck my hands under me, practicing a mute piano piece for the eight fingers between my thighs and seat.

"So where is it we are heading, then?" I say after clearing my throat.

Her smile turns Cheshire Cat like. She acknowledges the question, but chooses not to answer.

"By the names of towns, I reckon we are heading towards Bath," I say, "but I do not know this road."

"Well deduced," she rewards me. "Bath it is," and she flicks the music up and starts singing to it, as best she can. Slightly out of pitch, but earnest and full of gusto - like everything else about her.

She flexes her hand on the steering wheel again. I follow the contours of her muscles with my eyes. I know these muscles well. I see and feel them so often. I see them tense when she places her chin or forehead in her palm, when she wields a weapon. I see them stretch as she reaches out for me and feel them tighten around me as we embrace; I feel them flex and sweep across my abdomen as she works her way up or down my body.

I can feel my heartbeat quicken and my breath shorten at the thought of her touching me.

My gaze travels down to her thighs, a paradise known only to me. A treasure trove of pleasure to her - and me, by proxy - as I tease her with fingers, teeth, tongue and lips. I can hardly wait until we reach our destination, to hunt for treasure.

"Helena," she drawls my name teasingly, knowing where my mind is, how quickly it wanders. "Do you want to drive, maybe?" she asks, "it may take your mind off of..." Her sentence tapers off before she finishes it.

"Off of you?" I state matter-of-factly, my eyes fixed firmly on the regal column of her neck. "Off of taking you?" I husk. "Off of touching you, peeling your resolve an inch at the time, using nothing but my fingertips and tongue?"

Her breath resembles a whimper.

"Why would I ever want to stop thinking of you under my hand and me under yours," my voice lowers in timbre as I let it speak freely what has been occupying my mind for hours, for days; "your flesh touching my lips, my hair fisted in your palm, your back under my nails, my thigh between..."

She shifts in her seat as she clears her throat and cuts me off. She swiftly manoeuvres the car into a layby on our right, pulls the handbrake and turns to me. Her gaze is heated, out of anger or lust – or both, and she leans towards me, her eyes flickering between mine, my lips, pulse point, and earlobe.

"My beautiful, sweet tongued lover," she starts and reaches for my hands. "You know the effect you have on me." She looks into my eyes as she pulls my hands from under me, wraps them with her own.

"I do." I say with a deep breath, "Even at my ripe old age".

"Why then," she asks slowly, choosing her words as carefully as she is crafting her movements, "are you hell bent on making this drive longer than it needs to be?" she arranges my hands so she can encircle both my wrists with her right hand. She leans in closer, her grip on my wrists tightens and her left hand travels up my arm to caress the hair at the nape of my neck. She nuzzles my ear and whispers "You know that there is nothing I want more right this minute than have you inside me," she grants me a ghosting, tender kiss, "and me inside you?"

Her lips tickle mine and I claim them for a kiss, her words ringing in my head like a thousand church bells.

"Darling," I gasp breathlessly. "I want you".

She kisses me again and eases the grip of my wrists; her left hand slides down to cup my cheek. As she pulls away, she drops her gaze and closes her eyes with a deep breath. She releases it seconds later as a heavy sigh. She is collecting herself.

"All in good time," she says and smiles. Her eyes open again, bright and green, knowingly studying me from behind her glasses. My heart melts again. "We're not far away, I promise," She leans back into her chair, disengages the handbrake and gets us going again.

I stare at her lips, refusing to let go of their softness. They stretch and flex, scrunch and pout as she mumbles lyrics or occasionally mutters curses at other drivers, the weather or animals that behave unpredictably on roads barely fit for a horse and carriage, let alone a large utility vehicle.

I don't know what it is about today, but I just cannot focus on anything _but_ her. I have been finding it difficult to let go of her throughout the whole of this trip, but today has been harder than any other day. I cannot fathom why.

I turn my head to the left on purpose, forcefully looking away from her, gazing out onto the damp grassy hills that lap against our side. The narrow road winds through wet fields, along low stone walls, mires, muddy tracks and paddocks. It is very wet out there. I realise how much I missed England. It is so fair even when it is wet. Especially so.

I can't hold a coherent string of thought for too long, and sure enough, my mind wanders again, this time to a more distant memory, 8 or 9 years old.

 _It is late. We are in her bed. We usually end up in her bed on work nights. It is almost a ritual. We work hard at maintaining our excitement with each other, even though it has only been just under two years since my return._

 _I kiss her hungrily, but never her lips. My mouth caresses her cheek and journeys down, along the ridge of her jaw until my lips meet her pulse point, radiating warmth and need. I place the tip of my tongue to it and she gasps my name._

 _I close my lips around a patch of skin there, like a vampire. Instead of piercing perfect white skin and staining it with a passionate, bloody mark, I flutter my lips to her neck, slowly traversing upwards, towards her ear. I pause below it, at the base of her skull and nip eagerly, teeth and lips, towards the nape of her neck. I trail back, open mouthed, patient and languid, and then clasp the lobe of her ear in my teeth and pull. I gently trace my tongue along its edge before clenching my teeth more tightly. She moans, desperate under my touch. She can't even finish my name, she is so out of breath. I don't expect her to be any less desperate, because I've been subjecting her to this torture for the better part of an hour._

" _I know, my love" my lips whisper to her skin, "I know"_

" _Please kiss me, plea-" she begs, on the verge of tears. I hoist myself up and look down onto her, her green irises cradled in unshed tears, the golden ring in their middle just visible. Her eyes speak volumes of trust and honesty and devotion._

 _I love you so much, I think, but don't say it. Not yet. My prayer of gratitude to you has more to it than a vow of love. I love you so much for giving yourself to me, for letting me have you, for trusting me in a way I thought no longer possible._

 _I love you._

 _Instead of speaking, I take a breath, wet my lips slowly then place them unto hers, gently, chastely. I wish and hope that this kiss speaks of trust and honesty and devotion as her eyes just did._

 _She breaks the tentative innocence of the kiss first, pulling my bottom lip into her mouth as a low, thrumming growl rises from the back of her throat. I reciprocate by biting gently into her lips and sending my hand lower, past her navel, past her hip bone, over her thigh and between it and its twin._

 _I push gently down her length, parting her with my fingers, feeling just how keen she is._

" _Are you wet?" I ask, knowing she is. Feeling it at the tips of my fingers._

 _She moans throatily, her hips bucking. If I didn't know any better I'd say she was strangling a laugh._

 _I graze her with my fingers again and shudder at her want, her responsiveness. I start to move slowly, not too slowly, thought. I have tortured her long enough – she most certainly earned her release._

" _I know—", she gasps, "what you are—", whimpers then moans, "are doing," exhales a choked gasp._

 _This is new, the back of my mind registers. Is this an invitation to engage in dirty talk? "I am touching you," my voice vibrates from my throat like a bow against the string of a cello. "I am crawling inside you, taking you". I wonder if I should go further, but I am conflicted: my soft, literary, poetic soul asks me to concentrate so that I may come up with more enticing talk than this, but my id screams to simply take Myka._

" _Oh, Helena," she moans again, and most definitely chokes in a laugh, "don't stop."_

 _I decide to give in to my primal urges, and I claim her mouth with mine and press into her._

 _Any vocalisations of thoughts, no matter how fleeting or guttural, from her or me, are muffled by deep, sinful kisses, relentless and literally-breath-taking._

 _Her body shatters and shakes as she comes, but no sound leaves her because she is out of breath. She is magnificent as she comes apart and I am in awe and gratitude for being part of this, of her._

 _She inhales sharply and holds her breath for a few seconds, regaining control of her breath after the final few minutes of our lovemaking. The very ability to breathe in deeply, I am guessing, must feel like a novelty. She then exhales slowly and lets her breathing settle._

 _I pepper her chest with kisses, my head resting against her shoulder. I love you, I think again, but still don't say it._

 _We've exchange I love you's in the past, and she knows that I do, but right now, this sentiment leaves me feeling too exposed, too vulnerable._

 _Her hand comes to my forehead and sweeps stray strands of hair from it. I feel her take a breath._

 _I must ask, "Did you just laugh?"_

 _She answers with a delicate chuckle. "Don't play innocent," she says, "I know what you're doing," still playing with my hair._

 _I lift my head up and place my hand under my chin. I am truly bemused now. "And what is it that I am doing, exactly?"_

" _You are conducting an experiment in neuro linguistics," she answers calmly. "I am your test subject."_

 _My heart stills for a second. A multitude of thoughts stop dead in their tracks. Goodness, I did not expect this. How did she know?_

 _She smiles at me. Her eyes sparkling._

" _Myka, I—" I start._

" _I'll allow it," she cuts me, "but you have to promise you'll never use it against me."_

 _I promise, I think to myself but don't speak it. How did you know? How long have you known? Why are you letting me? How can you be so trusting? All pass through my mind, unspoken._

" _Promise me, Helena," she looks into my eyes, "no matter what happens between us, you'll never use it against me."_

 _Her words, tone and eyes are so honest. Their combination causes a catastrophic failure to the part in me that separates the stream of my consciousness from my mouth, "God, I love you for knowing," I utter, then blush profusely, "and I promise I will never use it against you."_

 _She cradles my cheek in the palm of her hand and rises to kiss me._

We turn onto a main road, a green sign marks that we are closing in on Bath. Daylight wanes behind clouded skies, and the grey skies that frame glistening hilltops slowly adopt pink hues of an early autumn evening.

Although I am fascinated by the landscape around me, I still cannot help but think of my darling Myka, my anchor and earth that ground me, the air and water that fill me, the fire that keeps me warm. So elemental, my Myka, and I stifle a giggle at my grandiose, classic-romantic train of thought.

"Softie", I mumble to myself, under a smile.

"Hmmm?" she turns her head to face me.

"My train of thought. If anyone were to know it, they'll think I'm a softie."

"Of all the adjectives I could choose to describe you, Helena, 'softie' is on my top ten," she smirks.

"If only you knew, darling," I say, hushed.

"Any reason I shouldn't?" she asks, but her attention is elsewhere. She's turning off the main road and back onto a lane, narrower than before.

"Later," I say. "I must allow you to focus on driving."

Her smile widens. "That's funny, Helena."

"What is?" I ask as she turns the car onto a gravel road cutting through a wide stately garden.

"That you let me to focus on driving when the driving is done." she says and pulls the car to a halt. She leans over and kisses me lightly on the cheek. "I do need to concentrate, though. That parking lot," she gestures to a dimly lit car park up the path, "is a far too small for this SUV, so I need all the focus and skill I can muster to not crash anything."

I lean back, into the car door, and raise both my hands up in submission. "Quiet as a church mouse".

She straightens her back as she puts the car in reverse. She turns in her seat, initially to the wrong side, and curses under her breath. She then turns back to the wheel, bracer her right arm across it and faces left, extending her form and turning it almost 180 degrees, so that her left shoulder is pushing against the headrest.

The contour of her body is stunning. Lithe and flexible as it ever were. I trace a long line from her forehead to her feet with my relentless stare: it starts at the top of her stern profile and high forehead that curves to a furrowed brow (in concentration). It continues across her cheekbone and drops over her clenched jaw, down her neck, as is slopes downwards and splits to shape a shoulder on one branch and pours into the expanse of her chest – rising and falling quickly as she scouts for a spot to park.

The line disappears into her v-neck, but I cannot stop there, because I can see beyond what she wears, I know her body by heart: past her chest, the line continues between her breasts to a sternum that would be slightly prominent as she is now holding her breath. It would slide down to her abdomen and down still over her thighs, quads tightly contracted to support her weight in this impossibly tense position.

My eyes stop at her quads as she eases one and flexes the other, ever so slightly, to bring the car to roll slowly backwards. As she controls the car, her muscles stretch the synthetic cloth of her trousers and it shimmers in the car park's light.

My gaze wanders to her midriff, how her jacket hugs her waistline, so smooth it is aerodynamic.

I ponder the choice of element and change my mind – hydrodynamic. While I cannot attest to the properties of Myka's waist under a flow of air, I can most certainly attest to its properties under a stream of water.

 _She is standing tall over me, leaning: one arm steadies her against the shower wall and the other wedged to its corner, bent at the elbow, fingers seeking purchase on the sleek tiles. If she doesn't hold on, she knows her knees may succumb and she's too close to the preeminent precipice give in to gravity rather than my tongue's ministrations. Water cascades from the showerhead above her and runs down her hair and shoulders, rivulets becoming steamy streams that circle her breast and traverse down her side, hanging onto her waist as they rush further down along the side of her long leg, then calf, to pool at her feet and my knees. The warmth of the water and its gentle caress only adding to the abundance of sensation she must be feeling. All it takes is for me to move my lips just so..._

The car comes to halt with a rocky jolt.

"Hydrodynamic," the word falls off my lips as my head thuds lightly against the car window.

"Sorry?" She says and pulls the handbreak.

"Your body," I say, feeling weariness travellers feel at journey's end. "It is hydrodynamic".

"Helena," she sighs and falls back into her seat, shaking her head lightly.

I smile contentedly and close my eyes. I hear the click of the seatbelt and the rustle of fabric. The next thing I feel are her lips against mine, gentle, nibbling. Then increasingly demanding, teeth tugging at lips, tongue grazing, begging to enter.

"Darling," I sigh into her mouth.

"I want you," she finishes my thought for me.

I break the short and tense silence by opening the car door. We climb down onto the gravel-lined lot not far from the entrance to a building – an Arts and Crafts period priory which I'm sure I have seen before. It appears to be a hotel now.

Myka admires the building in the fading daylight: her eyes twinkle with curiosity and her face is awash with awe. After so many years of witnessing wonder she still has curiosity and awe in spades. Yet another admirable aspect of her.

My gaze, as usual, wanders from her eyes to her lips and the knots within me tighten. I fear the want for her is fast becoming a need. Task focused, I open the back door of the car to fetch our suitcase.

"I'll go check us in," Myka says and makes her way to a door marked "Reception".

I follow her, watch her figure moving in sure steps, and sure enough, it is not her figure I eye, but her backside. I sigh heavily in anticipation of what's to come. I contemplate and strategise how I want her. How I want her to want me. How I want to have her and how I want to be had.

By the time I reach reception we're already checked in, and she's holding a key – a proper, metal key. I am slightly surprised at the presence of such old technology.

"Old fashioned, indeed," I say with a smile.

She smiles back, nudges her head towards the main hallway and walks down it. I follow her, silent, neither of us is saying a word. I am guessing she is as eager as I am to get to our room, where the tensions of the day can be undone over and over again.

The walk to the room is longer than I expect, and involves leaving the main priory building. We exit from the east wing and onto a paved garden. At its bottom are tall hedges and a gate, through which she leads me. Behind it – a small, secluded chalet.

The proper, metal key clanks heavily in the lock, and Myka holds the door for me to walk through.

There is a small foyer and two doors leading on to other rooms. The whole place is dimly lit with mood lighting. It is modern kitsch, almost as kitsch as my elemental train of thought earlier. As I walk in I feel Myka close behind me. The proper, metal key clanks again as she locks the door behind us.

I turn into the bedroom, adamant to have her on or in the bed within the next two minutes. I place the suitcase on its stand and start removing decorative pillows from the bed.

"Helena," she calls me from the foyer. "Come here, please."

Although she uses the word "please", hers is a command rather than a request.

"What's the matter, darling?" I call back, kicking my boots off and turning the covers down.

"Come here." She repeats. "Please."

I make my way to the bedroom door to look for her. "Are you alright?"

She leans against the chalet's door, her head tilted back, exposing her neck, her eyes are closed. Her glasses are holding her hair back at the top of her head. Her arms are limp by her sides, palms facing the surface of the door. Is she offering herself to me? I stalk towards her, taking long, careful strides. I notice her jacket is carelessly dropped at her feet.

"That," she opens her eyes, "depends entirely on your definition of 'alright'." She lifts her head from the door and looks into my eyes, her head tilted slightly downward, now that I am a foot or two away from her and barefoot.

I can't help but be a little worried. I hold my hand out to her forehead, touching her lightly with the backs of my fingers. She leans into the touch, closing her eyes again. Before I know it, her left hand is holding my hand at her forehead, dragging it down her cheek to her lips where she kisses my fingers.

Her eyes open, looking deeply into mine as she peels my hand from her lips and plasters it, fingers stretched, onto the surface of the door behind her, above her left shoulder. Without a flicker of an eyelid, with breaths steady and silent, the lifts my left hand with her right to place it in similar fashion above her right shoulder and she lets go. Her hands are back at her sides and mine flank her head.

I am stretched over her, as if I were holding her in place, our bodies are very close but not touching. I am searching her eyes for permission to do _something_ , but she grants me none.

"You see," she nudges her foot between mine, "you won." Her eyes simmering, holding a secret. "You stripped me bare of my resolve, Helena Wells," she gently urges my feet apart with hers, and my stance is even more menacing over her, albeit I am stretched slightly beyond comfortable. "I am naked and divested of willpower," she unclasps my trousers and pulls down the zip. "and all I want," I feel my trousers being pulled open and her hand reaches in, traversing all fabric barriers, "is to have you – "

I feel one fingertip grazing me intimately, sinfully light, painfully unsatisfying.

" – come apart by a single touch."

I gasp as she runs her finger along me a second time, firmer, but not enough, nowhere near enough for what I thought I wanted; but by her third touch – with the same, single finger – I shudder and arch my back with a moan. My head falls forward and rests in the hollow of her neck, my body continues to tremble, her finger against me.

She kisses my temple, soft nuzzles, caressing, over and over, and I cannot control the intensity of the aftershocks of such a simple, small touch. I whimper and whisper her name again and again, and she answers, whispering mine. She fills my soul and my head to their brims and it takes my breath away.

She does distract me so.

/ /

It takes her a little while to settle. I wait for her shaking to cease, for her breathing to even out, and for her to stops whispering my name. Only then I gently pull my hand up and out from her underwear and flatten it on her lower abdomen.

She is majestic in her semi dishevelled condition, extended over me. Hands framing my head, body stretched over mine, legs a perfect distance apart. I can feel her breasts lapping mine as they rise and fall with each breath, steady and soothing.

I have been wanting to feel her all day. Battling those wants wore me out and made it hard to keep focus. Her stares weren't helpful. Her advances made it worse, but her words – I thought her words would be the end of me. And here we are now, her at her state – dazed and mussed; and me in mine – weak and wavering, a slave to my desire for her.

If only she knew _just_ how much I desire her.

"Helena?" I seek her eyes.

"Yes, darling," she struggles to lift her head.

"I need to go away for a moment," I say. "Can you promise me not to move 'til I'm back?"

She looks a bit confused.

I bring my lips close to hers and whisper against them, "Can you hold yourself, just like this, for a few minutes?"

She sighs, brushes of her lips against mine and traps my top lip in hers briefly. And I thought I couldn't possibly want her more. "Will you promise me something in return?" she asks, voice broken.

"Anything, Helena."

"Don't be long."

I smirk. She doesn't know it, but she may actually want me to stay away. "Not unless you want me to," I pull away from her lips and slide down, my back straight against the door, until I am pooled on the floor, Helena spread over me like a sail.

I get to my knees and bring my hands to the waistline of her jeans. For a quick second I'm contemplating my options - what to do next, but my brain can't compute anything right now, it _wants_. I _want_.

I tuck both my thumbs on opposite sides of her waist bands – both jeans and underwear and yank them down in a single swoop until they stop halfway down her calves.

I hear her gasp, and before she has a chance to draw her next breath, my lips are at the apex of her thighs, tongue skimming over her folds, already slick and warm from a few moments ago; or possibly from the hours of mutual admiration and sexual preamble in the car.

The sound she makes next is both desperate and delectable. I feel her shift overhead – one of her arms gave way, but she pushes herself back, straightening her arm, staying true to my request to stay as she was.

I bring my hand up to support her, gliding over the front of her thigh, up her hip to rest where her stomach meets her waist. She quivers at the touch, a jumbled verse of nonsensical syllables falling from her lips as I press my tongue firmly to her core. I love how touching her makes her so... wanting.

I love how it makes _me_ wanting, too. The more I feel of her the hungrier I get, and this hunger is deeper than just making her come. I know _it_ (and I) won't be sated so quickly and hope – no – _pray_ that she doesn't ask me to stop. And it's as if she is reading my mind:

"Don't stop, Myka, don't stop, don't –" she chants, her breath hitches as I change my movements, laying long, open mouthed kisses on her.

Before long her pelvis starts bucking against me and she pants and whimpers, high pitched and fastpaced. I maintain my pressure and speed and let her set her own pace. _I_ know that whatever she chooses to do would only close the first movement in my sonata. And everybody knows that after an _Allegro_ first movement, comes an _Andante_. I have every intention to take her slowly next.

She comes with a harsh grind against my mouth, choking a scream. I slow right down, but don't move from her. I turn the sheet music over in my head and guide my free hand up her taut frame, under her shirt to skirt my fingertips around her breast, over her bra. As I set my touch around her breast, I set a new pace with my tongue.

"God," she gasps, "Myka."

The second movement is slower, with a discernible rhythm. Long swipes of my tongue followed by my bottom lip, while my hand, strokes languidly at her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple.

I look up at her, she is stunning. Statuesque - even in her current state. Tiny beads of sweat appear on her chest, juxtaposing her freckles. Her stomach slopes towards me, tremors rippling across it as her muscles contract and release in time with my tongue and thumb. There is nothing else in my world, in _the_ world right now, other than her and me in this cabin.

She lets her head drop between her shoulders, chin falling to her chest and a high pitched moan is shaken from her parted lips. She squeezes her eyes gently in time with my movements and adjusts her breathing to meet the same pace.

She draws her bottom lip into her mouth to wet it and her eyes flutter open for a split second. Her eyes, lidded, catch mine. She bites down on her lip and closes her eyes again. I work my tongue lower to get her to open her eyes again, and she rewards me by tearing them open, looking down at me and gasping – in time – wanton.

She mouths something to me in between breathless gasps - I'll be damned if I know what it is. I have a pretty good idea, but it is too soon for me to acquiesce. I squeeze my left hand at her waist and release my right from her breast, moving it down her side, to rest parallel to my other hand.

I use this newly arranged leverage to control her pace: I don't want her to speed up too quickly. I don't want her to speed up at all. I need her against me, I need to be against _her_ for a little while longer. There is nothing left in me to control this need for her. It is pure and unadulterated and can only be purged with this touch.

I add a bit more pressure to every move, pulling her towards me ever so slightly.

"Fuh—" she mumbles above me, "darling," she breathes out, "so long."

It has been so long, the longest day, in fact. A long day of fleeting caresses and stolen looks, like when we first met. Only now she and I know the how amazing the reward is on the other side teasing. That's possibly why today was so torturous.

I hum my agreement against her, deep and throaty, my lips vibrating against her. She cries out, arches and throws her head back, grinding herself into me more fervently.

She stifles a moan and pushes her whole body forward. She is asking me again for what she asked before. I smile because my pretty good idea was pretty good. But I don't relent. Instead, I grant her longer, firmer caresses, reaching her clit with every stroke.

I can't lie, I've been thinking of having her exactly like _this_ since I pulled the car over to tell her off. I've been having her exactly like _this_ in my mind for hours. So having her like _this_ now, thrusting against me, unashamedly demanding, is bliss. I could continue having her like this for hours, but she'll probably protest.

And she does, with a sob.

Just one more minute, Helena. Let me have you like _this_ for one more minute.

"Myka, please," she breathes.

I slow my tongue and bring it to a pause at the very top of her sex, lingering my lip on her. I drag my right hand down to where my tongue has been and slowly – very slowly – ease my index finger in.

She groans and take me in entirely, then freezes. I gently push upwards, then release, and repeat. It's only a matter of seconds before she'll ask for –

"More," she breathes, her lips sustain the 'M' sound, her head drops forward again and she looks at me.

Her deep, dark look heats me beyond boiling point. Every time... every time she does _something_ like that – a look, a smile – she pushes me just a little bit further into this primal state of need. I'm transfixed by her eyes and her taste. I want to do something else, something she didn't ask for, play with her like she plays with me, but I can't. It's almost like I'm exactly where she is now, I'm feeling what she is feeling. And it feels just like heaven.

So... Gladly, Helena, let me add another. As I glide in, I bring my tongue and lips back into play, running sure and smooth strokes from where my fingers are to her clit. I move my fingers inside her, gently pushing upwards and releasing – a slow-but-steady pace, _Andante_.

I can feel her shuddering above me and it makes me shudder too. She can only muster a sustained 'M' sound, and with my next move inside her I slip a third finger, keeping the steadfast, constant contact.

She is a holy sight to me: her sleek, black hair ripples like satin curtains around her face, her mouth open, white teeth trapping her bottom lip and releasing it with a gasp, in time, with my movements. She is tensing above me, her muscles winding tighter and tighter. She is so beautiful, so strong. If she could only see herself the way I see her.

"I can't—" she gasps.

You should, Helena. You are sublime.

"I cah— " she struggles to speak as she contracts around me "— much longer," my left hand slides from her waist to the curve of her ass, down the back of her thigh and her calf. I push her jeans down, releasing her right ankle and run my fingers back up along the softest skin, and down and up again, until she pulls her right leg up, and I guide it over my shoulder.

She is open to me, trusting and willing. I press deeper into her and she pushes down into me. She is wanting and keen. All for me. I can feel my core throbbing, demanding to climax, knowing she will be climaxing so, so soon. Oh, Helena, the things you do to me.

Her release is a _coda_. It is familiar but new, a drawn out culmination of this effort. I keep her at pace as she rolls over the edge again and again and again, moans turning to cries and to sobs, the whole of _her_ shakes into me, skin, muscle, bone, mind, soul. She is so intense in the throes of this orgasm, she drives me over the edge as well, without even touching me. Just like heaven.

With a final shudder she pulls herself off me, slides her leg from shoulder. I look up at her as she slowly lowers herself, her hands shimmying down the door, stiff from exertion. It looks like it's hard work for her, but she staggers down to her knees in front of me.

As she settles down, I'm thinking about the third movement. A Presto? A Minuet? I wonder if she knows just how much I desire her, how desperate I am in my desire. How even now, I'm still hungry for her.

"My glorious, talented Myka," she kisses me and leans her body against mine, hands at my chest at first, and then pressed to my breast. She deepens the kiss, drawing back the breath I stole from her, and stops me thinking about anything but where she's touching me. Her touch grows harsher – I can feel every one of her fingers through my clothes. She pulls back, licking her lips, palming me, squeezing. "I must rob you of your resolve more often."

I arch into her touch and close my eyes, biting my lip.

"Look at me," she orders and I snap my eyes open. Her eyes roam across my brow, then down my cheek and along my neck and up again. I can feel her look as it moves. "You are so raw in your unfixity. Desire and despair mixing so deliciously," she says as her eyes dart back to mine. Of course she knows. "So raw, it affects me. Infects me," She holds her teeth against her lower lip to emphasise the Fs. It's hypnotic.

Her squeeze turns to a pinch, and I cry her name out in pain.

She grins salaciously, lets go of me and slides her hands down my sides and around my back. She is fully pressed against me, leaning into me and my head is swimming with her scent and warmth. My breath quickens as she lines her cheek against mine, her lips next to my ear and her fingers toying with the hem of my shirt at my back. "Are you ready, darling?" she murmurs. "Hands up," and I comply.

With a brisk motion she tears my shirt over my head and removes my bra. She is immediately everywhere, instantaneously: on my lips and neck and collarbone; shoulder, arm, breast; chest, earlobe, temple. I can't even understand what she's doing and where but it leaves me breathless. Literally. "I'm ready, Helena," I profess, "I'm yours."

"Come," she speaks and stands up, steps out of her jeans and walks through the bedroom door, leaving me on my knees, gasping for her.

The cognitive, rational part of my brain is painfully slow to process and react. I'm actually convinced I'm following her, my eyes are following her, but it turns out my body isn't: she turns around looking for me, noticing I'm still on the floor. She leans against the door frame, naked from her waist down, grinning down at me.

"Who's the old man now?" she jabs with a quirked upper lip.

I come up to my feet, my legs are cramping, and I wince as I take a step forward, pins and needles rushing through my legs and feet. I limp lightly as I reach the door biting on my lips. "Not a word," I say through gritted teeth, with both my pride and muscles injured.

She grabs hold of my hand, lacing her fingers with mine and pulls me towards her. She reaches with her other hand for my glasses, still resting at the top of my head, pulling them out of my hair and running her fingers through it, releasing it.

"In all my life," her face wears a serious expression, the weight of her extraordinary existence suddenly making its presence abundantly felt, "ever did I think I could deserve an old man like you." She smiles to herself, coyly. "Poetic and prosaic, lustful and romantic," she loops a curl around her finger, "immensely intellectual and profoundly emotional, talented in so many ways…"

"Flattery may win you some graces, fair lady," I say with a raised eyebrow, and bring my hands to the lapels of her shirt, tracing circles above her breast with my fingertips.

"…with an amazing ass and the best boobs," she puts on her best attempt at an American accent and emphasises the end of her comment with nods.

My lips curl upwards, my cheeks pulling them further up still, and I let out a hearty laugh. "Really?" I laugh again.

"What?" she looks a little bit offended.

"Nothing," I turn to walk into the bedroom, "You're cute".

She yanks at our interlaced fingers, pulling me towards her. She lets go of my hand, and brings her fingers to my front again, drawing feather-light touches, circles and dots spiralling and circling the swell of my breast, towards and away and across and over my nipples. "I happen to quite like your breasts, you know" she ducks her head and takes one of my nipples into her mouth.

Her lips whisk away any trace of pain from my body. "I quite like that you quite like them," I retort and she sucks, hard. I hiss at the pain and she releases me.

"I'll show you 'cute', old man," she growls playfully and walks past me, into the room and climbs onto the bed, I follow her with a gaze I can, at best, categorise as lustful.

I'm a little bit shocked at how absent my resolve is. I'm not usually like this. Today, though, more than any other day, she has this power over me, this pull that I can't really explain. Every part of me wants her. My heart and gut and brain and sex and I am powerless against it. Every second with her adds fuel to the fire, desperation to desire, weakens my ability to want anything other than her.

God, Helena. The things you do to me.

I follow her onto the bed. She has made herself alluringly comfortable, laying on her side, head prompted on her arm. The curve of her body, from shoulder to waist to hip to thigh, calf and foot, is calling for me to touch, to feel, to taste. I crawl up the bed and above her, lean in to kiss her. She turns to lay on her back, and I drape myself along her, my head prompted up by my arm. From here I can appreciate how her eyelids and cheeks respond to my touch.

Despite my best attempts, she doesn't allow the kiss to overheat. Her hands are in my hair, on my shoulders, my neck, but not lower. The only times they travel lower is to keep my wandering hands in check: not below her shirt, not under it. Strictly first base, if it weren't for the fact she's already half naked. And so am I.

I smile at the teenage feeling of this. I'm on the living room couch, making out with the girl next door fearing one of her parents will walk in. I smile because we are _so_ not teenagers, and between us there is a complete naked female body that we both know _beyond_ well. There is no base for the level of knowledge we have of each other.

My hands travel southwards of their own accord, landing on her naked hip – again.

She brings the kiss to a leisurely end and meets my eyes.

"Honestly, darling," she says with a sly smile, "I think not." She grabs my hand and flips us over, so I'm on my back and she's on top of me, straddling my hips and her hands are pinning my wrists to the mattress above my head. "You've had your way with me, surely it's my turn to take pleasure in pleasuring you."

She lowers her head, but not to kiss me. She nips at my pulse point, chasing teeth with tongue and teeth again, nibbling down and around my neck, to the hollow above my clavicle and up towards my ear.

I gasp and shudder and wince, fighting her hold at my hips and wrists. I know it's pointless to fight her, she won't let me touch her now, but I can't help it. Judging by her gentle firmness against my skin, it will be a while before she releases me. So I reside to enjoy the ride. Perhaps I don't so much reside to anything, but submit. Entirely. Completely.

She gradually expands the length of the trips her lips are taking. First, my chest is added, then my shoulders, arms and hands. She is an expert at building me up, and even though I absolutely don't _need_ any build-up, I'm happy to be coaxed into another kind of anticipation.

She just reaches my left breast when the room is shaken by an almighty, loud ring.

It makes both of us jump, but she continues as if nothing happened. It's the old fashioned phone on the nightstand. I'm impressed. I've not seen a working rotary phone in years. It rings again.

"Don't answer it," she instructs and presses her tongue to the underside of my breast, and I gasp.

I don't want to stop but I know I need to answer it, because there could only be one reason for it to ring. "I'm sorry, Helena," I look up at her, innocently, honestly, begging for forgiveness.

She pulls up, hovers above me, still holding my wrists. "It isn't work, is it?"

I shake my head. "It's a surprise," I say quietly with the smallest smile.

"Do we need to get dressed for this surprise?" she asks.

I nod.

"Will it require me to be sociable?"

I nod again.

"Ugh," she grunts, letting go of my wrists and straightening above me. "This isn't over, you hear?" she wags her finger at me. She's adorable when she's frustrated.

I reach for the phone and pick it up. She is still straddling me, grinding her teeth impatiently. The concierge tells me that the party arrived earlier than expected and, at their request, dinner was brought forward. I am told we are to arrive at the drawing room in one hour. British hospitality is so formal.

I place the handset in its cradle and roll back to appreciate her above me. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, as they are when she is irritated. Her lips – rosy and raw with kisses – pressed shut. Her breathing is silent and her eyes are burning into mine. She is annoyed. Her hands are clawing impatiently at my pants. I reach for them and bring them up, brushing her knuckles against my lips, pressing light kisses.

"They weren't supposed to be here for two more hours," I say, trying to appease her.

She exhales in disappointment and defeat and rolls off of me. She lays down on the bed, facing me. As much as I love our guests, I can't help but share a bit of Helena's disdain right now.

"What is it, then?" she asks, irritation fading from her voice.

I reach for her cheek, caressing it lightly with the tips of my fingers. "Dinner in an hour."

"With whom will I be required to be sociable?"

"Do you want me to spoil the surprise?" I check with her.

She rolls her eyes and is quiet for a moment. I can tell she is contemplating her options, creating a strategy, forming a new plan. "Will there be time for me to execute any of my ploys when it is finished?"

My smile widens at the thought of _her ploys_ , "Of course. I insist that you do."

"We'll see about who wins the prerogative to be asserting insistence later," she says and holds my palm to her cheek, then brings it to her lips to kiss it.

There are times when I'm simply in awe of her. The journey she has gone through, and the journey we have been on together. I must be smiling in a different way now because her face softens, bravado and innuendo dissolved.

"Come to me," she says and holds her arms outstretched. "We have a bit of time and I've yet to hold you properly today."

I curl up to her, my head at her chest, arms around her waist, foot tucked between hers. She nuzzles my hair and takes deep breaths. Her heartrate slows right down and mine responds in kind.

I'm relieved that this is her reaction; I knew she wouldn't like the idea of a birthday party, let alone a surprise one. We don't usually celebrate Helena's birthday. She hasn't exactly had a usual recurrence of birthdays. Over time, the team and I have allowed her to instigate celebrations of anniversaries in her life.

But the team insisted on sharing it with her this time. It's a big round number – Claudia couldn't resist. Ten years ago things were a bit tense with her return and our relationship, so her sesquicentennial was a muted affair. But because Claudia still projects her interpretation of family involvement onto all of us (and I love her for it; both of us do) this was declared 'an event'. They are our family, and regardless of how secluded Helena and I may want to be right now, making time for them is a good thing.

It was a good thing to give her heads up, also.

"Thank you," she whispers.

I look up at her and smile, "You're welcome".

"How long have we got?" she asks, sounding a bit sleepy.

"I'm not sure," I'm searching for anything in the room that could tell time and come up empty. "Probably about 45 minutes."

Her fingers are idly tangling in my hair and she sighs heavily.

"Come on," I bring myself up, "let's get you cleaned up," I get off the bed and walk towards the door to the foyer.

"I'm afraid there may not be enough time for that," she jumps off of the bed, following me, "because you have filled me with such dirty thoughts today, darling," she walks up behind me and wraps her hands around my waist, leaning her chin over my shoulder, scanning the foyer and the evidence in it, remnants of my shattered composure.

A blush is creeping up my chest and neck.

"Come now, talented Myka," she snakes around me, arms still at my waist. "You mustn't be shy of such spectacular abilities," her bawdy smile returns as she plants a kiss between my breasts. She walks into the bathroom, peels her shirt and bra off and starts fiddling with the taps.

"I'm not shy of my abilities," I quote her with a hint of protest as I follow her into the bathroom. She's pulling her hair up, messily, to keep it from getting wet. "I'm a bit self-conscious about this…" I try to pick my words so that the best describe how I felt. How I feel. "…about being so… void of determination to… hold back." I go back to the foyer and start collecting our clothes, shaking wrinkles out, folding them up.

"Firstly," she calls from the inside the shower, "I am truly ecstatic that you are not shy about this truly uncanny ability of yours to unravel me in such wondrous ways." I laugh, acknowledging her compliment, odd as it is. "Secondly, I choose to look at it another way," I stand in the bathroom's doorway, folded clothes in my hands, watch her washing soap off herself, lather flowing down the contours of her shapely body, clinging to earlobes, elbows and nipples before being carried away. "Rather than being void of determination to postpone gratification, I'd say you were rather full of determination to receive it," she clocks my lustful leer, "and better yet," she beacons me, inviting me to join her, "bestow it upon me."

I place the folded pile of clothes next to the sink and get into the shower with her.

"So I fail to see how that's necessarily a bad thing," she says as she turns to face me, handing me the hotel's body wash bottle.

"Thanks, Helena," I take the small bottle from her, "I feel much better now," I say sarcastically.

She beams at me, pushes herself up to her toes and kisses my nose. "All yours, darling".

I chuckle and watch her dry herself. She then throws the towel over her shoulder, grabs the pile of clothes and walks out. I step into the hot water, let it soothe me, only to be hit by a reminder of our recent activities as water on my face releases hints of her smell and taste. And just like that, I'm completely turned on again.

"Quickly, darling, focus," I hear her say from the bedroom.

I turn off the water and step out. Wrapping myself in a towel, I walk to into the bedroom to find she scattered all of our clothes on the bed. She is either looking for something, or is having a momentary lapse of fashion reason. She's standing at the foot of the bed, hands crossed over her chest, hair still in an untidy bun. She has a bra on, and a towel around her waist serves as a wrap-around skirt. I'm sure the Parthenon had an icon that looks a lot like her right now. Her eyes are straining as she scans the contents of our suitcase splayed across the bed. She is reconstructing something in her mind, building a four-dimensional image of the objects laid before her.

"Were you talking to me or yourself?" I break her concentration.

"Both, actually."

"Are you looking for something?"

"My locket. The wretched thing seems to go walkabouts whenever time is short."

"I got it," I walk over to her, "finish getting dressed." I run my hand across her shoulders, releasing droplets of water caught her hair.

I rummage deep inside an inside pocket in the suitcase and pull out a small wooden box. I place it on the bedside table and turn to getting myself dressed. I am a true believer in the power of a good LBD so I put on one of my favourites. It is elegant, not overstated, not overly revealing. It's one of Helena's favourites too; possibly because of how it looks on me, but more because of how it's done up, or rather – undone.

To an unsuspecting onlooker, it's a simple black dress. Thick shoulder straps, high neckline, going just under my clavicle. It has simple, long, fitted lines and its bottom hem stops just above my knees. At the back, behind my left shoulder, there is a metal clasp that keeps that shoulder strap together. Undoing it breaks the strap above the shoulder blade. The entire length of left hem, from under the arm the bottom, is actually a hidden zip. Undoing the zipper when the clasp is undone opens the dress up to a single sheet of fabric.

It takes me less than a minute to put it on. Helena will take much longer to take it off.

I look at Helena as she finishes dressing up. She's in her usual Victorian/BizCas chic: thick weaved slacks, low cut, with a sizable leather belt running through its loopholes. Tucked in them is a light coloured silk blouse with a high collar that opens generously to reveal her freckle-dashed chest.

She is busy adjusting a double breasted waistcoat – a handmade work of tailoring art that traces the shape of her upper body without appearing (or feeling) like a suit of armour. Her finishing touch is a pocket watch she attaches to the waistcoat with a thick palladium chain. For all her feminism and femininity she dolls up in a way that is entirely her own.

She's about to turn around but I brace her shoulder with my hand. "Let me," I pull the collar out from under the neckline of waistcoat and straighten it. I reach for the wooden box at the bedside table and take out her locket. With a delicate sweep I bring the necklace around her neck, lower it slowly onto her chest and fasten it. She touches the tips of her fingers to its edges. I touch mine to the chain and the prominent vertebrae at the base of her neck.

She turns her head and her eyes meet mine. Her right hand is still at her locket, her left traces my brow. Her smile is warm and satisfied. "You fill my heart with joy, Myka Bering."

"And you fill mine with comfort," I answer. And delight. And ecstasy. And desire. And the inability to control myself.

My list is cut short by Helena's chuckle. "Softies…" she mumbles

I quirk an eyebrow at her.

"In the car park. Remember?"

We head over to the bathroom to touch up make up and fix hair and she tells me about her "elemental" moment, the soft train of thought.

"Wow," I exclaim, "twice in one day."

She dries lip gloss off, biting her lips to a tissue. "Maybe I should do a bit more field work, or go back to research. All this consulting is making me…" she scrunches up her face.

"Or maybe I'm just a bad influence," I say playfully.

"Oh, you most definitely are. The worst." She mocks me, running her fingers through her hair, then shaking her head so the black waterfall cascades naturally. She leans in and whispers in my ear, "Your breasts being an exception. Not an ounce of worse about them. They truly are a wonder."

She waits for me by the cabin's door in a cocky stance: slight lean backwards, feet apart, hands hanging by her thumbs which are tucked in her pockets. Her eyes are a dark shade of brown, sparkling with a smile that rests easily across her face – her vulnerability showing under a mischievous grin. She takes my breath away. She offers me her right arm as I walk up towards her.

"Shall we?" she asks.

"How long are we going to hang on to the 'old man' thing?" I ask as I snake my left hand around the small of her back and tuck my right into her gentlemanly offer.

"As long as we see fit to pass it between us," she opens the door and leads me out.

We stroll silently past the gate and up the path to the main house, she leans her head on my shoulder. I nuzzle her hair, kiss her the top of her head. It's a comfortable silence, but she lives inside her mind so well – a habit she perfected over one hundred years – and her mind wanders so quickly. I feel the urge to pull her back. "How are you doing?"

"Remarkably well for a hundred and sixty," she answers and we fall silent again. Before we walk into the priory, she turns to face me. "Remarkably well". She presses a chaste kiss to my lips and walks us in.

The gang is already assembled in the drawing room. Claudia spots us before we walk in and rushes over to squeeze us in a hug. Pete is hot on her heels, piles himself onto us.

"Happy birthday, H.," Claudia chirps from under Pete.

"Happy birthday, old chum," he says with his best attempt of a British accent. I smirk. There is something about these two and bad accents.

Tracey and her husband, Kevin, come up to greet us afterwards, giving us each a hug. Their kids are in the far corner of the room, playing with Joshua's son.

"You both look stunning," Tracey says. "Really, it's like there's a glow…"

"Thanks, Trace," I smile.

Helena is the one to smirk this time. "Must be the countryside air."

Joshua approaches us next, Steve and his partner (also Kevin, an engineer, Helena's kindred spirit) walk up behind him. There are more hugs and they whisk Helena away, already in deep conversation about the merits of green living and post-industrial philosophy.

Claudia grabs my elbow and pulls me aside. "I'm so _so_ sorry about the earliness. The plane landed ahead of time, there was absolutely no traffic to speak of. I'm sure Artie used an artefact to shorten what should have been a pretty arduous journey." She says with an apologetic smile.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," I wrap my hand around her shoulder, "It's so great to see everyone. Thank you for taking the time and arranging all this for her."

She swipes her hand as a "nonsense!" gesture, with an aloof expression. "Is she okay with it?"

"Yeah," I nod, hesitantly at first, then I get more committed to my answer. I watch her being handed a gin and tonic by Steve's Kevin, who sits next to her, Steve and Tracey's-Kevin on the couch opposite them. Pete is on the armchair between the two sofas. They are now talking about how to make combustion technology obsolete. Her body language radiates how at ease she is, how comfortable. I'm thinking about 'old man' again and it makes me chuckle, because she is clearly sitting with the old boys. "She's okay. How about you guys?"

"Oh, you know… we're keeping the fort secure. We levelled up with the kitchen door thing," she uses air quotes very emphatically around the words 'kitchen door'. That's Claud's code word for the gateway, "which is a headache of interplanetary proportions. We have ministers and officers and NATO coming out of every possible orifice, and _so_ many documents in _so_ many languages I can't even begin to count – we're sure missing you, you know, but the agents in training are doing well picking up the slack, sorry they couldn't come, by the way, someone had to keep the ship running, plus I thought we should really keep it small, seeing as it is H, and she's not big on the hootenanny concept," she eases off for a breath.

My grin widens as she speaks. I've missed her so much. "Good thinking," I squeeze her shoulder and she squeezes mine. Since we started working on the gateway project, Claudia and I have been spending a lot of time together. She's not a little sister anymore, or supervisory agent, or tech support. She's one of my closest confidants.

Artie and Vanessa are pretending to not be absorbed in each other on the other side of the room, as usual, and wait for excitement to die down before they approach the group with more birthday wishes. Artie hands Helena a small wooden crate. They beacon Claudia and me over.

"How Artie-facty," Claudia beams, and the conversation – which by now turned to renewable energy and the public hoax that's become – comes to a natural stop.

Helena unfastens two catches at the top of one of the panels on the case, then slides the panel up and over. She brushes wisps of straw aside to reveal a dusty bottle of Bordeaux, 1866 vintage, and two bottles of single malt whiskey. The first, is an eighteen-year cask aged (one for every year we've known her); the other, thirty-year aged (to roughly make up the total number of years she has been out of bronze).

I watch her closely as does the maths. Her jaw drops, it takes her a split second to remember herself and she smiles widely. "This is…" she doesn't finish the sentence. I can't help but smile at her excitement. IT amazes me that at a hundred and sixty she can still look like a four-year-old in a candy shop.

"Loss of words!" Pete exclaims, and hi-fives Claudia. "Told ya!"

"The wine is more for effect than for drinking," Claudia explains rather excitedly.

"Thank you," she says, eyes daring between Claudia, Pete and Artie.

"I would, in fact, recommend you didn't open the bottle or have the wine, as it is highly likely to be laced with lead and swarming with free radicals, given the amount of time it spent in a deep underground cavern of a Chateaux in France," Artie fills in.

"I wouldn't dream of it," she says, eyes sparking, "Thank you," she is sharing her gratitude with everyone around her. "Traditionally, this would be a perfect digestif," she holds up one of the whiskey bottles. "But given the rarity of the occasion, shall we throw tradition to the wind and have a sip now?"

As the evening rolls on, the topics of conversation flow from art to technology, ethics to gardening. I would usually be a keen contributor, but I'm enjoying watching them. I'm enjoying watching _her_.

After dinner we are retired to the library (Brits and their ceremonies…) which feels like a _proper_ gentlemen's club: soft lighting, mahogany-panelled walls, embedded bookshelves, portraits of the royal family. There is an assortment of high-back chairs and two-seaters in a semi-circle around an oversized hearth, a fire crackling inside it. I walk back into the room admiring the lot of them, heatedly putting the world to rights.

I'm standing by the door, my back to a bookshelf, watching them, watching Helena with them; clearly in her element, clearly belonging. This feels so different to when she first joined the team, or when she joined the team the second time. This feels easy, and I feel content.

"She trusts you implicitly," a familiar, low timbre startles me.

I turn around, and sure enough, it's Mrs. Frederic. I nod to her and blush a bit.

"You trust her equally."

I nod emphatically. "It scares me sometimes, the trust," I add after some thought.

"Why is that, Agent Bering?" It's funny she still calls me that, like neither of us has aged. Well, one of us hasn't.

I look her squarely in the eye. "It's has a lot of power."

"More power than any artefact," she smiles knowingly and takes two steps forward, so we are well within each other's peripheral vision. We are facing the room but turned towards each other. "How is she doing, then?"

"Remarkably well, by her own assessment."

"And by yours?"

"She's very well."

"Her engagement in deep thought?"

"Not as frequent," I take a breath to continue the sentence, but I'm not sure I should.

"What is it?" she quizzes me.

"She doesn't turn inward as frequently, and when she does…" I purse my lips, "it's a different kind of fascination."

Mrs. Frederic raises a questioning eyebrow.

"Inwardness," I can feel my cheeks burning, thank whatever powers that be that the room is dark. "Intimacy". I'm not in the habit of even remotely hinting towards having a sex life to my boss.

"I see," she says, "and her work?"

"The consultancy seems to be working well. It keeps her busy. She has to deal with something new or different almost every day. We share that, work through stuff together."

"Does she not find it dull?" I shouldn't be astounded by Mrs. Frederic's insight into Helena's psyche, but I am.

"Not so much dull as, maybe, mundane."

"Has she expressed wishes to return to The Warehouse?"

"I'm not sure she meant it, but she made a couple of off-handed remarks."

"Did you discuss our offer to you?"

"We did. The jury is still out on that one."

"At whose behest?"

"Both of ours. It's a big change for us. It's a big change for them, too," I gesture to the group in the middle of the room.

"Do you have concerns about her coping?"

I shake my head. "I don't think she will ever be able to keep herself from thinking _in_ the way she does," she's been thinking inwards for more than a hundred years, she's been practicing it much longer than _not_. That's one habit that will be hard to kick. "But the safer she feels, the smaller the gap between what she _thinks_ and what _is_ , the better it works. And, I mean, it's working pretty well so far. It's been working well for a long while now."

Mrs. Frederic is silent for a moment. "It takes dedication, Agent Bering," she looks at me, "a true labour of love."

Don't I know it. And this is Mrs. Frederic acknowledging that labour. So I smile and nod at her, in thanks.

"Please pass on my best wishes," She says and vanishes.

Mrs. Frederic visits once a year these days. Up until a couple of years ago it was twice a year, and more frequently before that. Always short and to the point. Always knows if something s up. I've learned a long time ago to not try and hide things from her.

I think about what she said about trust. I think about the trust I have in Helena, the trust she has in me. The trust Mrs. Frederic has in me, the trust all of them have in me. I don't think about this trust often because it becomes something disproportionately larger than it actually is. All it is, really, is sharing a life with Helena Wells, and everything that comes with it. True, there are details in our tapestry that are not found in most relationships. But we make it work.

"Myka?" she calls from her seat, I walk towards her chair and around it, placing myself gently on the armrest. She runs her knuckles along the outside of my thigh, a small caress, hidden from view. "Where have you been?"

"Irene sends you her best wishes for a wonderful birthday," I say to her, quietly.

She raises her eyebrows in mock surprise.

"Stop it," I nudge her shoulder, "She comes every year."

Helena slides her hand around the small of my back and leaves it there, while articulately sucker-punching a challenge to Tracey-Kevin's solution to the quandary of privacy in a world of globalised identification systems. It feels a little like hard work to not let this turn me on.

The conversation rolls on for another 20 minutes when the parents in the group excuse themselves to go put children to bed. It takes us all another 20 minutes to bid our goodnights.

"Hey, you okay?" Pete nudges me with his shoulder. "You were spookily quiet tonight."

"I'm fine," I look at him. "It's been such a long drive today, I think it took it out of me."

He angles a look at me. "Since when does driving tire you out?"

"Since it's on the wrong side of the road and since my car is far too big for the roads I drove on." And since I had to fight off wanting Helena so badly. I sigh heavily and shrug. "Not quite the spry fox anymore, am I?"

"Were you ever?" he asks.

I punch his arm. He smiles. We hug. All is right with the world.

"Breakfast?" Claudia asks as she gives Helena a goodnight hug.

"Not too early, darling," Helena responds.

"Say no more," Claudia wiggles her eyebrows at us.

Soon enough it's only the two of us in the library. We're sitting on adjacent chairs, facing the fire. "Well?" I ask. "How was it?"

"Not as distracting as you might have liked it to be," her smile fans the fire I tried so hard to keep at bay. "Did you think I failed to notice the dress you are wearing?"

"Give me some credit, Helena, I know you far too well to try and sneak anything past you," the fact that _this_ is her answer makes what little collectedness I had managed to build up throughout the evening slip away. I extend my hand over the armrest, reaching out to her.

She finds the palm of my hand with her fingertips and draws circular designs on it. "May we go back to our room so that I may unwrap you?" She whispers.

Oh, Helena. How quickly you replace collectedness with desire.

I close my palm, trapping her fingers inside it and get up. I walk towards her and she stands up, her right hand lands on my left shoulder and slips behind it, tracing her fingers around the metal clasp at the back. "Let's".

"I've thanked Claudia exhaustively," she says as we walk towards the east wing. "She has certainly outdone herself, bringing everyone here, arranging all this."

"Is this a really long winded way of saying you enjoyed your birthday party?" I squeeze her hand lightly.

"It has been a wonderful day, darling," she opens the door to the garden path and allows me to walk out first, "and it is not over yet," she says as I walk past her. She hurries to catch up with me and intertwines her fingers with mine. "The best of it is still to come," she bites her lip, her grin turns suggestive.

As we approach the cabin, the day catches up with me suddenly – the long drive, my sexual outburst, the evening's celebration. I feel a longing for her. I want to hold her for a few moments, just hold. To acknowledge her, celebrate her.

We walk into the cabin and she leads me straight to the bed. The pace of her breath and shape of her eyes tell me she's excited. I stop at the side the bed and pull her towards me, wrapping my arms around her, resting my head against hers.

She responds instantly, enveloping me in an embrace. "Thank you," she whispers.

"Happy birthday," I say.

"Thank you," she repeats.

Her arm moves up from the small of my back to cradle my head at her shoulder. She nudges it lightly and I look at her, deep into her shimmering, black eyes.

"Thank you," she says a third time and coaxes me into a kiss.

It starts lovingly, open and filled with emotion; long and pressing and harmonious. My hands are at her waist, hers are in my hair and on my shoulder. As the kiss slows, it turns lazy, drawn out and both our breathing turns laboured.

It doesn't take much for her to ignite me.

"May I?" she whispers and I nod my consent. I am doing the best that I can to _not_ touch her; to give her the time to have her way with me. I'm not sure I am doing a good job.

The hand at my shoulder slips to my chest and gifts me a gentle caress. She moans into the kiss as she touches me and I smile. She wants this. Wants me. Possibly as much as I want her.

Her fingers skirt around my side, under my arm to the hidden zip. She drags it down slowly, and stops when it reaches my midriff.

She breaks the kiss and leans her forehead against mine. "I have been waiting all day for you," she whispers and draws a sharp breath. Her eyes flutter and with what feels like near reverence, she peels the dress away from my side – without actually touching me.

I can feel a cool wisp of air on the skin she's just exposed – just as the side of my breast, followed by her fingertips, followed by her fingers and palm. Her thumb reaches under the fabric of the dress to sweep the top of my breast, and I didn't realise I was holding my breath until her thumb grazes my nipple and I release it.

She answers with a gasp of her own. Her left hand leaves my hair and flows down my back to the curve of my hip. I feel her grip tighten and she insistently urges me backwards and onto the bed.

I settle down and she leads me up it, leveraging me to my back at the same time. Her left hand is at my hip, her right on my breast, she pushes me until my back rests against the pillows and my head against the headboard.

She leans in again, but this time it's hungry and hard and no less desperate than I was. Than I am. I can't wait to feel her. All of her, all over. I reach down between us to undo the buttons of her waistcoat. I manage to undo them, but I don't know how to take it off her because she refuses to take her hands off me.

She deals a bite into the kiss just before pulling away reluctantly, growling in disappointment. She leans back to sit on her heels, dragging her hands down my body as she straightens. She shakes off the waistcoat and unfastens her blouse in a haste, leaving it hanging, a crack in the light curtain revealing a hint of skin underneath.

She is wearing an adamant expression and I wish I knew what her intentions were. I don't intend to wait and find out – so I sit up and push my hands under the silk, across her ribs and upwards to meet the front clasps of her bra.

Helena arches her back, pushes herself into my palms, impatiently. I take this as permission, it's my turn now, and I caress her, sliding my nails down her chest. I unclasp her bra and pry her breasts out, wrapping my palms around them. I attach my lips to the base of her neck, ardently nipping her skin, her freckles. She gasps and I gasp as the touch turns feverish.

My hands drift lower to her belt buckle. I suck on a spot above her breast in the hope of distracting her while I work her out of her slacks. It works for a while: I manage to undo the belt and buttons. But as I start pushing them down, her hands are on my wrists – again – holding them tightly. "Helena," I mutter, dazed, her grip shakes me from the trans I'm in.

She holds me still and gazes into my eyes with heated seriousness. I'm out of breath, twitching in her hold, needing her, but she is isn't moving. She not touching me and she's not letting me touch her. Her eyes fixed into mine, adamant.

"I would like to unwrap my gift –" she prizes my hands from her and pulls them up and over my head. The nimble fingers of her left hand tighten between and around both my wrists and she yanks up. The sharp movement elicits a choked moan from me, "– so that I may have it," she enunciates. Her right hand is creeping up my exposed side up to my shoulder and behind it, to the clasp. She squeezes the catches and it unlatches with a soft click. "Will you let me have you?" she tugs on the lower fastening and it falls, exposing half of my back.

She releases a shuddering breath and crawls off of me to reach the newly exposed patch of skin – form under my left shoulder blade to the small of my back. She starts where the clasp was, and drags her lips and tongue across to my spine and down it, then outwards to my waist, under my arm and up again.

She peels the shoulder strap off, diligently, fastidiously, as she eases me down to my back, my wrists still firmly in her hold. She acknowledges every inch of skin with a kiss or a nip, slowly traversing my shoulder, to my collarbone and chest, leaving my flesh heated and sensitive, until my left breast is exposed, yearning for her to lavish her attention to it.

"Myka," her breath is heavy, her gaze focused on me. "Will you let me have you?"

"I'm yours," I whisper and she leans down to take my nipple into her mouth, her hand skirting my ribs. As her lips tighten and release, the only thing my brain processes are the sensations she's imprinting in me.

She shuffles out of her slacks, and arranges herself between my legs without her mouth leaving me. Her left hand lets go of my wrists and slides down my right side, the side that's still fully covered, to reach where the skirt of my dress meets my thigh. She tucks her fingers under and I can feel them pressing tightly against the inside of my thigh, twitching. She restless in her anticipation, and so am I.

Her right hand finds the hidden zip again and pulls it all the way down, until it's entirely undone, and then she stills to catch her breath. She sighs as she stops altogether and sits up. She is motionless, sitting above me with eyes closed. She takes in a deep breath and opens her eyes as she reaches for where the hem of the dress is broken by the open zip, just above my left knee. She licks her lips slowly and drags her bottom lip into her mouth.

With heart-breaking tenderness, she pulls the dress off me, as if turning the page of a priceless manuscript, and I'm revealed to her. For a while she just looks at me, all of me, all over me, and I can feel my skin tingling as she looks.

She leans in slowly, brings her hand to my cheek and kisses me, adoringly, deeply and lowers herself onto me. My muscles contract to the feeling of her over me. She finally grants me the touch I longed for all day. She pushes her pelvis into mine with a growl and I whimper.

All I can do is whimper.

She eases the pressure from my core and I immediately buck towards her, needing more. She presses her palm to my hip, steadying me, then slides it between my legs, floating over the front of my underwear, offering me a shadow of a promise.

"Helena," I call her name. It feels like it's the only word I know, the only word that matters. "Don't tease."

She presses her fingers more firmly down then all the way back up. She traces the outline of my underwear and tucks her hand under, pressing a finger to my sex, pushing deeper, but not inside. She moves slowly, basking in the softness and heat. Her face is calm and peaceful, eyes shut and slow breaths escape her slightly parted lips, curved into the slightest smile. She's taking great pleasure in touching me, and the thought of her pleasure in mine excites me even more.

I'm not sure I have it in me to prolong the excitement. I _need_ her. And I _need_ her to say _it_. I'm waiting for her to say _it_. She know that I am, but I want her to say it.

Say it, Helena. Say it.

Her eyes open and she looks into mine. For a second that lasts a small eternity, we are completely still. And then she speaks, low and sure:

"Are you wet?"

/ /

With those words, she falls open beneath me, and I fall into her. I fall into her effortlessly, she is so wet there is barely any friction. She pulls me deeper and I am compelled to oblige – it is my honour, my duty and my never-ending pleasure to give in to her, submit to her.

Word of worship and devotion fall from my lips as they brush the skin below her ear. She emits sounds that are an Amen to my sermon, as I graze the rim of her ear with my teeth. Her head falls back into the pillows below her. She is biting her lip, choking the moans that escape her.

I am desperate for her. I need her to fall with me into this blissful abyss so I slowly slip my hand out and move it to the apex of her sex, drawing slow circles around her clit. She groans, harshly. I caress her stretched neck with my fingertips, "come to me," I say, and tighten the circles I draw on her.

She furrows her brow and releases a hard breath. She turns her head towards me, straining, her whole body is rigid. I underestimated her need, how desperate _she_ is for _my_ touch. She seeks me so tantalisingly, and I am so eager to please her, to give her more. I wonder which of us submits, which of us succumbs to whose will; perhaps neither of us; perhaps both of us.

I let go of thought and reason, and allow indulgence and pleasure take hold. I go back inside her. More, harder, faster. More insistent, more assertive, more confident.

Come, Myka.

She keens and reaches for my lips with hers. She claims me with a fierce urgency, her moans and whimpers vibrate against my lips, her centre pulsates and hums against my hand.

I break the kiss to breathe. She is taking all that I am. I am giving her all that I am.

I am yours, Myka.

Come.


	2. Chapter 2: In Silence

Chapter Two: In Silence

A faint sound of a knock shakes me into a state of semi consciousness. I brush it off with a flurry of reasons – I'm asleep, I'm comfortable, I'm off duty, I'm off work, I'm on holiday with Helena. No one should be knocking.

Helena stirs next to me, her skin touching mine; warm, comforting. I am not ready to leave this clam just yet. I take a deep breath and try to settle back into sleep. There is a very rare peaceful silence in our bedroom; her shallow breathing and mine, sunlight casting long lines across the floors through thin cracks in the curtains, familiar scents in the air. It feels wonderful, and I doze off.

The second knock is firmer. Helena responds, exhaling a sleepy groan as she curls up to the other side of the bed. I am now wide awake.

I lift the heavy blanket and lay it down carefully, trying not to make noise, move too much or too fast. I sit up and scan the room for something that would make me presentable fairly quickly. The floor is littered with a variety of clothing items, mostly Helena's ensemble from last night. My dress is nowhere to be seen. It must be at Helena's feet. Putting it on wouldn't be classed as presentable, plus whoever is on the other side of that door, will surely make a snide comment about my still wearing it, anyway.

I opt for the towel hanging on door and wrap it tightly around me.

The third knock is louder and rattles the cabin's door. I mutter friendly curses under my breath because I'm doing the best I can, given the circumstances, damn it.

I tiptoe out of the bedroom closing the door behind me. The key's clanking in the cabin's door is practically deafening, and the cold air flooding in through the open door is an unwelcome addition to a rude awakening.

"About time," Claudia voice whispers from the other side of the door, "I didn't know whether to get worried or…" she falls silent as she acknowledges me, partially hidden behind the door, in an obvious state of half-dress.

"You don't need to get worried, Claud. Just a late night".

"I need to borrow you, dude," she says, her face dons an apologising expression, but her tone is demanding.

"Really?" disappointment is evident in all aspects of my response.

"Ten minutes, tops."

"Can I slip into something a little less comfortable first?"

"Make it snappy, lover, gotta leave to a COBRA briefing in, like, 20," she smiles, but doesn't move.

I push the door to and scramble for whatever I can find in the foyer. There are socks and boots and my raincoat. This will be even creepier than wearing nothing but a towel, but that's what I have to work with, and Claud will forgive me.

"Nice," she nods at me was I walk out, closing the door behind me, "very flasher-y".

I angle a look at her, then a smile. She smiles back. I walk us towards the garden furniture next to the cabin. It's cast iron and cold. Very _very_ cold.

"So we're up to COBRA now," I state, checking progress.

"Yup," she tucks her hands into her coat pockets, "and King's Landing is not my turf, you know. This is entirely yours."

"I honestly didn't think things would move this fast," I share my surprise at the efficiency of the British government.

"None of us did. But fact of the matter is our special friends across the pond are eager beavers and want to jump the bandwagon while it is parked comfortably in their back yard".

"So what do you need me for?"

"I know your answer, but I have to check," she sets it, up her tone creeping higher as she speaks, "any chance I can wrangle you in on this?"

I sigh heavily, confirming the answer she already knows.

"I know, I know," she sighs in return, "marital bliss and all that."

"You know it's not about that," I say, my voice low.

She purses her lips and nods sternly, knowing she misspoke.

I reach for her shoulder to give her a reaffirming brace.

"Okay, so I need to run the strategic flow stuff by you, to make sure I understand this the right way," she says.

"Shoot," I lean my elbows on the table and clasp my hands, preparing for a concentrated bout of brain work.

She starts by laying out the assumptions we are working with about how having a Warehouse presence in Europe will work, and gives an overview of what we've established with removing the Warehouse from under the American Government and on to a global Non-Government Organisation, to which a multitude of parties are contributing resources and manpower.

She then explains what the substation is: a weigh station that is connected to the Warehouse with a gateway – a portal that will be used to transport artefacts, possibly data and maybe even people.

She moves on to detail the benefits, practicalities, risks and restrictions of supporting the Warehouse, and then on to the protocols we have established for hosting a substation and a field office.

"This is where I'm talking about personnel requirements, and am supposed to mention that you will be heading the field office," she says, her eyes searching mine.

I nod.

"…and that H.G. Wells will be manning the gate," she finishes off.

"Yeah," I say incredulously. "Did we ever mention we have the one-hundred-and-sixty-year-old father of science fiction in our midst, who, by the way, is a woman?" I mock ask.

"No, I do not believe you had," she answers, stiff upper lip and posh accent, and we laugh.

"Well, there you have it," I say, laughter dying to a chuckle at the bizarre implication of debriefing people on how endless Endless Wonder actually is.

"So…?" she asks without asking.

"You completely aced it," I beam at her. "Very articulate. Very clear. Very confident."

"How do I play the staffing report?"

I pause for a moment, thinking about how best to put it across. "Mention me, but not Helena," I say eventually. "Say I am the likely candidate, and if anyone asks, you will be confirming my placement before they take the proposal to Parliament."

"Likely candidate," she repeats, squinting, etching my words to memory, "confirmed before Parliament."

"Exactly," I give her two thumbs up.

"So you'll do it?" she asks me.

"The jury is still out," I repeat what I had told Mrs. Frederic last night. "Helena and I need to understand what it means, and the lot of us need to understand what it means." I lean back into the unforgiving, cold, iron seat.

"I think we're good, Myka. There will be an adjustment period, but we'll figure it out."

"Between you and me, as friends," I gesture to the space between us, "it's likely that I'll take the job, but I really don't know what Helena will choose."

"I understand how complicated it is," she answers, her brown eyes piercing mine, and all of a sudden she not Claud, Warehouse 13 The Next Generation anymore. She's not even a Supervising Special Agent Donovan. All of a sudden, she is a Warehouse Caretaker, wise far beyond her years.

"We'll figure it out," I say with a smile.

"You betcha," she stands up, rubbing her hands together while still inside her coat pockets. "I better get shufflin'."

I get up and we hug. "Knock 'em dead," I say as I squeeze her a bit tighter with sisterly pride.

"No way I can entice you to join?" she tries again.

"No." I say with a smile.

"No way I can bribe you?"

"No."

"Coax?"

"Nope."

"Threaten?"

"Mmmm-mmm," I shake my head firmly.

"Kill joy," she mutters.

"My middle name," I stick my tongue at her.

She blows a raspberry as she walks away. "I'll call you later," she waves me off.

I close my eyes and take in the crisp morning air of the Wiltshire countryside. It's cold and damp, and it carries a hint of small-hold farming. The sun is flooding the seating area where I'm standing, caressing my face with golden rays.

If every morning was like this I can definitely get used to it, I think, and a gust of wind reminds me all I'm wearing is a towel and a raincoat.

I enter the cabin quietly, taking off the boots, raincoat and socks. I am feeling positively frozen in contrast to the warm air inside. I tiptoe back into the bedroom, peeling off the towel, watching the blanket intently for movement and slip carefully under it.

I make myself comfortable on my side, breathing in deeply and quietly. The room is far too quiet – Helena is definitely awake. I wait another minute before speaking, softly. "Come on. Spit it out."

She grumbles as she turns around. "I'm struggling to see how such a lovely bunch of very intelligent people drastically fails to understand the fairly basic concept of 'time off'," she inches closer to me, her foot touching my calf, "Heavens, Myka, get out of my bed! Are you intent on freezing us both?"

Someone's abrupt awakening is not boding well with them. "I was hoping you could warm me up," I drag my leg up hers, resting it across her thigh. She squeals in pain and possibly delight.

"Get off!" she pushes me, and we play fight for a few moments.

"Only if you really want me to," I say, fending off her half-arsed attempt of an attack and she falls into my arms, defeated.

"Who was it and what did they want?" she asks as she settles down by my side, her head resting on my shoulder.

"Claudia wanted to run a debrief by me."

"Did she ask about the offer?"

"She did."

"And what did you tell her?"

"That the jury is still out."

She lifts her head and looks at me sternly. "Half the jury is out," she corrects me. "Because _you_ are taking the job."

"That's not how juries work," I say, half jokingly, "and we haven't talked through the implications yet."

"We agreed, Myka, you are taking the job," she prompts herself up.

" _We_ ," I emphasise the pronoun, "haven't agreed anything yet."

"We bloody well have," her expression turns adamant. "You want it, I want you to have it, every other bloody person tied to this wants you to have it," she continues, "that's a rather sound confirmation by many logical accounts."

"Are we really going to talk about this now?" I ask.

"Yes," she sits up, pulling the blanket to her chest, leaving me somewhat deprived of it. "Isn't it the reason we are here?"

"Not entirely," I tug at the blanket, pulling it – and her – towards me, but she's resisting. "Can we maybe continue this over breakfast?"

Without answering my question or having registered it to begin with, she launches a barrage of arguments about prospects and commitment and risk. She counts the other possible candidates, their knowledge and experience. She recounts the background for removing the Warehouse from the clutches of government and the idea of creating substations.

She attributes the efforts to Claud – who engineered the gateway through brilliant physics and an artefact to result in a secure means of traveling between substations and the Warehouse; and me – who spearheaded the creation of The New Warehouse and who effectively managed the political and practical transitions, turning the vision to reality.

She continues to talk about the muted power of women in the 21st century as well as the duty and responsibility I have to fulfilling my potential, given everything I've sacrificed.

As much as I adore her intellect and her passion, sometimes I can't stand her for them. It's pointless to try and talk to her when she's like this, and while it sometimes feels like she's being condescending, I know she doesn't mean it. She's just being _her_.

I know I won't win this, and I want breakfast, so I get out of bed and get dressed hoping she'll follow – and she does, not losing her train of thought or a single breath in her pathos-filled speech, even while brushing her teeth. I manage to squeeze a few words in here and there, but this isn't a conversation. She's standing firmly on a soapbox, unloading what has been playing on her mind.

I wait for her by the door, in the foyer, holding both our coats.

"…it would simply be foolish to pass on an offer such as this," she summarises. "They so rarely present themselves in any organisation and even more so in secret ones that have so few members."

"You know it drives me crazy when you talk at me like this," I hand her her coat.

"I do, but I do not wish for you to pass on this opportunity for whatever sense of loyalty you have for the Warehouse and its operatives. Including me for that matter."

"God, Helena," I shake my head, "it is my choice."

"It doesn't soun—" she starts again.

"And I've already made it, Okay?" my voice is slightly raised as I cut into her words. "I just want to make sure it works before I sign the dotted line," I calm myself down, I really don't want this to become a bigger issue than it is. "I just want to make sure it _all_ works." I open the door and we walk out, towards the priory.

"What do you think is not working?" she asks.

I know she means well, but a part of me doesn't have the patience for this, so I roll my eyes at the question. I also know that this is important, so I dig deep to consider her question seriously. "For starters, there will be one less senior agent in The States, which will make training and coordination more difficult."

She nods. "Difficult, but manageable. You've already handed most of that over."

"Recruitment from US government agencies will need to be cut back and I will need to build these networks from scratch here in Europe."

She nods again, "A big effort, many variables, not to be sniggered at."

"The gateway and all the technology still need a lot of testing, and there will be a lot of Business As Usual stuff going on at the same time."

"You have staff whose purpose is to deal with just that," she responds.

"I won't have Pete or Claudia to balance me out."

She is quiet for a handful of seconds. "You'll have me," she offers.

"Will I?"

/ /

We walk into the priory in silence, make our way to the dining room. It is rather late is the day and the head waiter seats us at the far end of the room, under a window, at a table they had already set out for lunch. The priory's lavish gardens stretch in front of us.

I realise now where and when I had been here before. The priory used to belong to a Lord who supported John Ambrose Fleming when he was researching the possible applications of his newly invented vacuum tube. John and I shared many heated conversations on the balcony, just outside this very window, hypothesising the revolutions wireless communication will bring with it. If only he knew then what I know now...

I realise I am distracting myself from answering a difficult question. I haven't answered Myka yet, her question weighing heavily on my mind. I want to say, 'always, darling, you will always have me', but both of us know that life is too cruel and unpredictable to allow us the keeping of such promises.

The waiter arrives again and takes our drinks orders, gives us instructions on breakfast options, menus.

She can so easily put me in my place now, ask me to admit that my silence hides the very many reasons I hadn't accepted – or declined – the offer yet. She can, but she does not. And while I would admit to my silence's purpose if she were to challenge me, I know I will be reluctant to admit the reasons it hides. If I were in her shoes, I would be angry with me now. "Why are you not angry with me, Myka?"

"Because I know this isn't straight forward," she says so very calmly.

"I'd be furious with me by now," I reach for my teapot.

She looks at me, into me, a mysterious grin on her face. "How fortuitous we aren't one and the same, Ms. Wells."

I smile back at her, appreciating that she chooses to appease me in my own language. "This must be why they chose you," I say under a hushed smile. "You have such patience."

"I can't believe you just... You exasperate me sometimes, you know?" she exhales, a cocky half smile across her face.

Our drinks arrive with toast and we busy ourselves with them for a few quiet moments.

"I want to say that you will have me," I say somewhat distractedly, while buttering a slice of toast, "and I'm confident I will find ways to occupy myself in the UK, even if I were not to come back to the Warehouse."

"You and I know that one of the main reasons why we have been working so well is because you have work wears you out. Work that you and I can share because it's _yours_. Because it's not the Warehouse."

"I can work here."

"It took you—"

"Us," I correct her.

"—us five years to build your practice. I don't think I will have it in me to build it again here, on top of the substation."

She is blunt with her response. Blunt, and honest, and correct.

"We will have the gateway," I say.

"That's an option," she bites into her slice of toast noisily.

The waiter arrives with our hot breakfast and we tuck in, in silence. I can feel scenarios unravelling and branching in my mind – a multitude of options and consequences of what may and may not happen if I were to move to the UK with Myka, or she were to stay in the US with me. Or if we were to separate. The unfurling of these sleepy branches stirs something in me.

 _I am sitting in a booth at the Univille Diner on Main Street. I am facing the door, Irene Frederic is sitting opposite me. The air is hot, dry and still. Summertime in South Dakota is not a forgiving place for an Albion refugee, who strongly prefers drizzle, fog and mist._

 _My heart is pounding in my chest and my head feels heavy. It could be the heat or the onset of dehydration. Or it could be because the door that dominates my field of vision will open any minute now and she will walk through it._

 _Or so I hope._

 _Irene sips her tea and I sip mine - in silence. She wears an expression that is uniquely hers, revealing nothing about her state of mind or intentions. I am rather relieved it is her opposite me and no other Warehouse representative. Irene truly values silent reflection. Not many Warehouse associates value it as much as she does. I have strong evidence to support this observation as I've grown to know so many of them more intimately than I ever wished to._

 _After the troubles with Sykes and Paracelsus, the regents realised that I_ am _an artefact: my knowledge, skills and mere existence too dangerous to be left loose in the world. As such, a means of containing, monitoring or governing me must be put in place. The Janus coin proved too risky a method; the use of Bronze has been put into question, as have the uses and the consequences of other mystical means of confinement._

 _With physical confinement as a last resort, much to my mirth, the regents experimented with other means of securing me: first it was surveillance, then regular handling meetings - which frequencies increased - until I had been effectively chaperoned. Each new phase introduced me to another regent's aide, then another regent. All said arrangements became intolerable for all parties involved rather quickly._

 _After two and a half years of regent supervision, which tallied a handful of messy incidents and a fistful of messier near-misses, it was clear that I had to be handled by a more capable Warehouse representative. I was told I am being handed over to an agent._

 _This is new territory for them and for me; neither of us are entirely clear about the meaning of being handled by an agent. I just know that there is one agent whose company would be much preferable to any other._

 _I look into my teacup, swirling the dregs in slow circles when the bell above the door rings. I look up and see her face for the first time in nearly three years._

 _I stand up to greet her, whispering her name._

 _She walks over, sure stepped, straight backed, agent-like._

" _Helena," she says. "Mrs. Frederic"._

" _Myka," Irene calls her by her first name. "Please sit," she gestures to the seat opposite her – next to me._

 _I scoot down in the booth to sit closer to the wall and Myka smiles at me as she sits down. For the second until she settles I study every detail in her profile, comparing it to the details in my memory. She hadn't changed much._

" _I appreciate the both of you being here," Irene starts. "I realise this is, perhaps, slightly awkward given the history you two share, but it is because of your…_ history _… that we believe this will be the easiest way to formulate how an arrangement such as this could work."_

 _Myka presses her lips in a tense smile and looks down._

" _What's your expectation?" she asks when she raises her head._

" _The same as that of a Warehouse agent, Myka," Irene answers calmly. "Protect the Warehouse and its artefacts, and by that, protect the world from their danger."_

 _She nods._

 _Irene is quiet, looking intently at Myka, then me, then Myka again._

" _We always said we should meet for coffee," I start somewhat clumsily attempting to break the silence._

 _She turns to meet my eyes. "Yes," she smiles crookedly. "Coffee."_

 _As if possessing magical timing, the waitress comes along and pours Myka a cup._

" _I'll be honest, though," she chuckles and waits for the waitress to return to her station, "if the purpose of us getting together was coffee, I'd've picked someplace that serves better stuff."_

 _We've shared many silences in our time, Myka and I, none quite as awkward as this one. Irene has long since disappeared, it's just her and me now._

" _So…" she starts without intending to finish._

" _So." I answer. "What would you like to do now?"_

 _She frowns, considering the limited options Univille has to offer. She then tilts her head and fires a sideways glace in my direction. "Do you wanna walk on it?" she asks, nudging her head towards the door._

 _I nod excitedly and get up. She leaves the table and I leave a twenty Dollar bill on it. We walk out in silence. The sunlight is harsh and I wish I had some protection from it. Myka, ever ready and a proper local, has sunglasses on._

 _We walk the length of three blocks, nearing the end of Univille's shopping precinct, when she speaks: "I'm really glad to see you, Helena." She stops and turns to me. "Even though it may not feel like I am."_

 _I look at her and smile, adjust the strap of my shoulder bag and point in the direction of the riverside park. We head towards it._

" _They chose you?" I ask tentatively_

" _I volunteered." She responds, somewhat coldly, giving very little away._

" _They convinced you?" I try again._

" _I volunteered."_

" _How did they persuade you?" I press harder, with considerable less patience._

" _I volunteered," she asserts._

" _Myka, be honest with me," I look at her, pleading, "that's the only way this is going to work."_

" _God, you are so stubborn, it's tiring," she grabs hold of my right arm with her left and turns me so we are squarely in front of each other. She pushes her sunglasses up and past her forehead until they rest in her curls, a dark tiara. She bends down slightly so her eyes are level with mine: they bear a greyish tint and her pupils are small in the bright light of day. Their size reveals them to be encircled by a ring of gold. "I volunteered," she enunciates. "And honesty only works when we trust each other."_

 _She lets go of me and we continue walking. I contemplate her words and their meaning for a few moments:_ when we trust each other _._

" _Well, not nearly as glad as I am to see you, Agent Bering," I say and pick up the pace, overtaking her. "And I am not stubborn." I throw back._

A small smile spreads across my lips as I recall our reunion. So awkward those silences were, in the first few days, reticence flanked by stop-start conversations and stiff banter until we found our footing in discourse. It took us nearly a month to find our pace, to be able to enjoy exchanges with each other that did not revolve around to the most recent impending doom.

As for trust – trust is a gift she surprises me with every day we share, a gift I have been learning to reciprocate ever since that afternoon walk in Univille.

It is time to reciprocate. I must stop hiding behind my silence and place trust in us being able to come up with a suitable solution. "I would like to try working at the Warehouse again," I say.

"Okay," she lays her utensils down. "You know you don't have to."

"I know," I lay mine down as well. "I know that there is an inherent danger in stepping back in to the Warehouse, being beholden to its powers," I pause to ponder which powers I was beholden to when working in warehouses in the past, "and the powers of memories, possibly more so than those of the Warehouse itself."

She notices the shift in my demeanour and reaches her hand across the table to hold mine.

"You don't have to, Helena."

"Will you let me try?" I pick her hand up and look at her.

A smile and a light blush blossom across her lips and cheeks. Her smile widens, stretching to an impish grin.

"What?" I ask.

"You realise that if you do come back, you will be an agent under me."

"Ugh, Myka Bering," I throw her hand back at her, "you're incorrigible."

We spend the rest of breakfast talking about the different options we have if I were to join the Warehouse again. We discuss working part time, a fixed number of hours or days in a week, with and without on-call or retrieval duties. We consider a phased approach, whereby I will be a dedicated resource at the substation for a length of time, and then draft up additional phases as required. We consider full time Warehouse engagement and the duties I will undertake thereof.

We head outside for a stroll in the gardens and continue the conversation – rather practically – onto living arrangements.

"It has not escaped me that one of the reasons why this is so difficult is because this will be the first time since our involvement that we may need to be apart for considerably longer periods of time," I say.

She chuckles. "Last night I was thinking about how issues that come up in our relationship are so similar to ones other couples have, but for us the context and implications are _so_ different."

Her comment makes me curious. "How do you mean?"

"Tracey and Kevin were in a similar situation a few years back," she picks up a fallen yellow leaf from the side of the path, twirling it backwards and forwards between her thumb and index finger. "He got promoted which meant he needed to be at HQ for so many days in a month."

"Ah," I exclaim an understanding, "a long distance marriage, spanning Colorado Springs and Cincinnati".

"Their conversations very quickly revolved around not seeing the kids enough or seeing too much of them," she shrugs. "Or who brings home the metaphorical versus the physical bacon."

I quirk an eyebrow at her phraseology.

"But for us, it is altering a delicate working arrangement of protection and guardianship of an extraordinary person and artefact that took us years to create," she takes a breath, holding it in and contemplating how to continue. "Tracey and Kevin got to a point where they lost confidence," she says after a while.

"Lost confidence?"

"Because they weren't seeing each other as much, they found other people to fill the roles they used to have for each other. For us, though," she pauses again, "what and who we are for each other is part of what makes _this_ –," she gestures between us, "– _us_ – work, you know? We do what we do for _a reason_. We are close for _a reason_ ," she falls silent again. "And it's been going really well. Anything we choose to do will change the—," she is searching for the right words, "—balance of proximity we worked so hard to perfect," she pauses again, letting the leaf fall from her grasp. "It scares me."

"Why?"

"Because part of my role in your life is to help with your—" Myka's closes her eyes, searching for words again.

"Darkness," I provide.

"Darkness," she repeats, thankful.

As if to contrast the word, she looks up at ceiling the trees are forming above us, a tunnel of shimmering sunlight, filtering through leaves of red and orange. So very opposite to darkness.

"I'm not sure that—," she starts and stops. "I don't feel—," and starts and stops.

She is sparing my feelings. "Out with it, Myka. No need to mince your words." I urge her gently.

She takes a deep breath in, "I think this darkness will always be a part of you, it will never go away," she says with a harsh exhale, "and I'm not sure that you will be able to manage it on your own," she looks at me briefly, then lowers her head. The implicit conclusion Myka is making is that I will always need a person with whom to share my darkness. Painful as it is to do so, I concur.

"Mrs. Frederic was right, you know? It is because of our history…" she pauses again, stops walking and turns to face me. "I've seen your darkness up close, Helena. I _know_ your darkness. That why I can share it."

My heart goes out to her, I have never seen Myka exert so much effort in choosing her words. I feel her struggle rippling in me and I want to be able to come to her aid. I want to be able to agree, to say what is going through my mind; but I am not as brave as she is. I never was.

She smiles stiffly as she looks down. "Maybe it all boils down to jealousy and proximity," she whispers, tucks her hands in her pockets and looks at me again. "It scares me because I don't want to know what it will feel like if someone else were to share your darkness with you."

Clouds drift across the sun, depriving us of its warmth. The temperature drops around us instantaneously, turning her words tangible and fragile as her breath becomes visible.

I must say something, I owe her as much. Go on, Helena, once more into the breach; I try to motivate myself to speak. But there are too few strands of thought for me to pick at, to start with. Too few, and they are all painful, thin and fragmented.

"Nor I," is the best start I find, and for a while, all I can gather.

Myka and I have agreed that I am to, as she puts it, get off my cross with regards to my transgressions. Oh, bollocks to Victorian wordsmithery: Myka forgives me the Minoan Trident and holding a gun to her head, forgives my betrayal, forgives me MacPherson and the others – collateral damage incurred on my rampage. She forgives my disappearing, my absence. And while I trust in her forgiveness, I do not trust in my own.

"You are right. Darkness will always be a part of me. All this time, and I still struggle to reconcile who I am with who I was. I still struggle to appease the part in me that was so angry and lost it sought to bring about the world's end," it is I who needs a pause for breath, the damp chill in the air passing through me like a ghost. "All this time, and it is you who steadies me in this struggle, Myka. You who makes it surmountable." I look back at her. "My fear is that there _is_ no one else who could share my darkness other than you. I fear no one else forgives me other than you. Do you see how dangerous this is?" There is one final fear that weights on me, I must give it form. I speak, but the words come out a faint mumble. "I fear what I am without you, Myka. I fear what I may become."

While the study of the human psyche is a fascinating field which I had found myself vigorously studying over the past few years, right this minute, its school that upholds the motto "better out than in" feels rather moronic. It most definitely _does not_ feel better right now, neither in nor out. It feels exposed, heavy and uncomfortable. To ease the discomfort, I start walking again and she joins me, close enough for her arm and my shoulder to brush against each other.

The silence is tense but not with anger. It is tense with anticipation. I am frantically thinking of ways to solve this, to design a way in which we could keep what we have achieved so far while moving forward.

 _I arrive at a hotel on the outskirts of Ottawa late on a Tuesday evening following a full day's work in a client's office – a technology firm that hired me to improve sales and marketing._

 _I walk into my room, a tidy black and cream affair, rather lacking in character. Yet, what it lacks in uniqueness, it makes up for in comfort. I throw my suitcase on its designated rack and throw myself on the armchair in the far corner of the room. I kick my boots off and straighten my legs, reaching for an ottoman that's a bit too far for my reach, so I slouch in the seat and groan at the newly found, quasi-horizontal comfort._

 _I can't help but groan with every exhaled breath, as the adrenalin of the first day is wearing off: my limbs start to pulse with stress and my head is heavy with information, conversations and sensations._

 _I reach for my back pocket to fish out a small notebook and pen and rest them on my thigh. I straighten myself in the chair, pull the ottoman closer and place my feet on it, my knees bent. I flick through the notebook and scribble additional thoughts summarising the day, making connections between facts and observations, connections that are only visible from the vantage point of a day's end._

 _A violent vibration followed by a high pitched ring disrupt my analysis. I reach for my other back pocket to find my wretched mobile. Myka's name flashes on the screen and a smile flashes across my lips. I swipe the screen to answer it._

" _Hello darling," I chirp._

" _Hey," she replies jovially. There is little background noise on her side of the call, far too quiet for an airport, where I assume she would be, given the time. "Count to twenty and open your door."_

" _Where are you?" I ask._

" _Make it fifteen," she says and hangs up._

 _I do as I am bid, with the exception of opening my door: I do so when I've reached ten. I cast a look down the hall, in the direction of the elevators, leaning against my room's door to prop it open. Not two seconds from having taken post at my door, the ones at the end of the corridor swing open and Myka walks through, her suit slightly crumpled, her shirt pulled out from her trousers. Her coat in one hand, a small duffle bag in the other. She reaches me by the count of fifteen. She walks right up to me, stops short of our bodies touching. She leans in and kisses me chastely on my cheek._

" _You opened at ten, didn't you?" she speaks low, looking at me with a smile._

 _I reach my hand up to the lapel of her jacket. "You know me too well."_

 _She walks into the room and I walk in after her. In a matter of a minute she has shaken her jacket off and piled it atop her bag and coat by my suitcase; and has fallen into the armchair much like I had earlier. I beam at her._

" _You are a sight for sore eyes," I sit on the ottoman in front of her._

" _You sure know how to make a girl feel wanted, but I can guarantee this sight can be much improved," she unfastens the top three buttons of her top._

" _Bad journey?"_

" _Not bad, just long," she leans back and closes her eyes. She is alluding to her most recent mission in central Siberia, chasing a prehistoric caldron that produces food that alters the mind of its consumers, the basis of the biblical myth of Esau and Jacob. She left for this mission 4 days ago and we arranged to meet in Ottawa, once the object was secure._

" _I take it the mission was a success?" I ask._

 _She nods wearily. "Yes. Fairly easy retrieval, politics was tricky, though."_

" _You seem to be collecting a lot of experience in this arena of late."_

" _Yeah…" she muses the observation. "I think I'm beginning to prefer schmoozing politicians to chasing bad guys."_

" _So long as they keep you amused."_

 _She laughs. "How was your day?" she opens her eyes again._

 _I reach for my notebook and groan dramatically, noisily flicking through the pages and pages of notes I've collected._

" _One of those, huh?" she leans forward, her hands reaching for my shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. I swing around on the ottoman so that my back faces her. She takes her queue and starts rubbing my shoulders rhythmically, as I regale my notes to her._

 _She challenges my observations and assumptions, helps me clarify priorities. I draft up a set of milestones to work with and test them with her. She is a rapt and participatory audience and doesn't let me get away with anything._

 _It has been more than an hour since she got in by the time we put work matters to bed. Looking at her, slightly slumped in the armchair, I think it might be time to put her to bed as well. I push the ottoman until it reaches the armchair and lean back into her. She wraps her arms around me._

" _You must be knackered," I roll my head against her shoulder._

" _Only a bit," I can feel her heartbeat slowing against my ear._

" _What time is your flight tomorrow?"_

" _Ten thirty."_

" _Will you have time for breakfast?"_

 _She nods. "You're back in Featherhead on Thursday?"_

" _I am."_

" _Wonderful," she says and tightens her embrace._

 _We both shower and fall into bed, picking at a few topics of news: Claudia's progress with the new Hawking section at the Warehouse, a development in the field of quantum computing, latest tensions in the middle east, sustainable end-to-end coffee launched by Starbucks and Myka's change of hair care products._

 _We kiss goodnight and I'm sure she's asleep before our lips part. I rake stray curls from her forehead and kiss her again before settling next to her. Sleep does not dawdle taking hold._

 _We wake up late because neither of us had the presence of mind to set an alarm the night before. We don't have time for breakfast._

 _I rush to put clothes on, knowing I am expected at the office in less than thirty minutes. Myka hangs back, giving me the space I need to get organised, which also wins her another quarter of an hour in bed._

 _I sling my bag over my shoulder and she sits up. I rush up to her and lean down for a kiss. She reaches her hand up, holding me to her for another second, pushing my hair behind my ear._

" _Once more into the breach?" she half questions, half states._

" _See you Thursday," I say._

" _I can't wait," she replies._

 _I kiss her again and head out the door._

"A happy ending depends on when you choose to end the story," she says quietly, ending minutes' long silence.

"Paraphrasing Welles?"

"The other Welles," her tone sounds lighter. "Maybe it's just time to write the next chapter," she looks at me. "It's been an awesome read so far, and will have a happy ending if we stopped writing now."

"But not the time to stop just yet," I reiterate.

It is understandable that we will be apprehensive about changing our lives so drastically, the impact it will have on us; on me; on her. I am in full agreement, though. It is high time we started another Bering and Wells adventure. "Once more—"

"—into the breach" she finishes with me.

/ /

By the time we make our way back to the priory it's nearly dinner time. We are exhausted, physically and mentally. The afternoon was good for us, though, to be out in the fresh air, to talk about things, think about them. We haven't reached any concrete solutions or made any concrete plans, but there is definitely progress: Helena is coming back to the Warehouse, to work with me on building the substation.

It was hard bringing up Helena's darkness. Maybe I need to give it a name so it's easier for me to refer to it. Pete calls it The Dark Side of the Force or Dark Side of the Moon and makes Darth Vader or Pink Floyd noises accordingly. I think he is the only person who can make me laugh when I'm talking about Helena's villainous potential.

I hate bringing it up because I _know_ this darkness. I know it because I was at the sharp end of it, but also because I think I have it in me too: following a vein of harsh determination to achieve what my moral compass deems as truth could have easily consumed me at various points in my life.

I also hate bringing it up because Helena is a good person. A wonderful person, actually. Bringing it up puts a dampener on how wonderful she is. It's like a disclaimer: Helena is only a good person as long as... Thing is, though, she was punished for what she had done, and she'd fought and sacrificed her way back into all of our good graces twice over, if not more.

But her darkness _is_ there, and it is like a black hole in her universe that – if she's not careful – she could simply trip over the event horizon and fall into its oblivion. And if that happens, no God can help us.

Sometimes I wish that she and I were more like Tracey and Kevin. That we could kiss it out, have wild sex and forget all about it, exclaim our never-ending love and walk into the sunset in a tight embrace. But she and I have been through too much, apart and together, to trust that love will fix us. We are too worldly and, frankly, too cynical.

And – as we have spectacularly struggled to express over the past few hours – have too much to lose if this doesn't work.

We arrive back on the grounds of the priory through a back path that leads us straight to our cabin.

"What do you want to do about dinner?" I ask her, pinching the bridge of my nose as I try to muster an ounce of mental energy for making decisions.

She reaches for my hand, gently wrapping it in her palm to ease my motion. "Let me take care of that," she says.

"Thanks," I whisper and turn into the cabin, as she walks up to the priory.

I get in and take my shoes and coat off. I'm feeling cold and tired. All I want to do right now is curl up in a ball under the blanket with a book and not talk to another human being for about 48 hours. I strip down and change into my antisocial uniform: ski socks, yoga pants and an oversized South Dakota U sweatshirt.

I am about to give in to my plan - shutting the world out - but my phone starts making a litany of noises, celebrating its return to cell reception, wifi and all. I would have switched the damn thing off, but I know Claud is out there, waiting for a sign from me.

I scan through emails and text messages, none are from her. I compose a quick text to her: Just got reception back, been a long day, probably not as long as yours. Let me know how much ass you kicked. M ; then throw the phone on the nightstand and pick up a random book from the pile of books the cabin sports – a Dean Koontz novel I've read before, but will provide perfect escapism for the evening.

I head towards the bed and my phone goes off – it's Claudia.

"Hello there," I say, trying to sound as supportive and positive as I can.

"Geez Louise, you were _not_ kidding about it being a long day," she answers. Evidently, I'm not very good at hiding my exhaustion.

"So?..." I ask excitedly. "How did it go?"

"I spent the past five minutes trying to pun about putting some part of COBRA in COBRA that would demonstrate how this debrief was aced, but I got nothin'."

I laugh. "It went well, then?"

"It did," she says. "Me thinks the force is with us on this one."

I hear the door to the cabin open and shut.

"That's fantastic news, Claud. See? You don't need me."

"Steady there, Bucko. I'm not ready to give you up."

Helena walks through the bedroom door, carrying a hessian bag.

"Were there any questions? Was there feedback?" I ask.

She begins giving me a near-as-damn-it blow by blow account of who asked what and what she came back with, as Helena mouths to me "who is it?"

I mouth back "Claudia".

"How did it go?" she mouths emphatically.

"I can hear you two having a conversation, you know," Claud remarks mid-sentence. "Put me on speaker," she orders and I follow.

"Hello Claudia," Helena greets her lovingly. "I hear today went well?"

"It did indeed," she says. "Warehouse Custodian: 1; British DEFCON team: nil."

"It's superb to have good news," she says. "I'll let you and Myka finish off."

I switch the speaker off and bring the phone to my ear. "What next?"

"Well, there is even more paperwork and more audits – as if that was even possible. Most of these are on this fair island, though, so it looks like _someone_ will need to make themselves comfy on the home front," she hints rather blatantly. "Any news about your end?"

"Yes."

"Are you gonna make me ask?" she drawls.

I catch Helena's attention and look her straight in the eye as I speak "You will have both of us, but I'm not entirely sure about the configuration."

Helena nods back at me, reassuring me that my presentation of the situation is apt.

"Yay!" she squeaks. "Colour me fifty shades of excited – it will be so amazing to have you both on this."

"Consider the colouring done," I respond.

"I'll see you guys tomorrow for breakfast, we can talk details?"

"Sure thing, Claud."

"Oh, and wear something less creepy, will ya?"

"Just for you," I say.

"'Gator," she chortles.

"Croc," I chuckle back and hang up.

I silence my phone and look in Helena's direction. She has arranged a picnic of cheeses, bread and wine on the coffee table. And a game of Risk.

She walks over with a glass of wine in one hand, and a slice on brie on a bit of torn bread. She stands over me, handing me the glass. Once I hold it, she combs her fingers through my hair, cradling the base of my skull in her palm, tilting my head back slightly.

My mouth falls open and she rewards me the bread and cheese. My jaw is stiff, so I wince as I chew on it, but the taste is divine, and – boy – am I hungry.

She pulls my head towards her, resting it across her belly, caressing my face, my hair.

"Better?" she asks once I've swallowed.

"Much," I respond, feeling as though I've caught a second wind. "Much better, Helena," I look up at her. "Thank you," I smile, and feel as though she recharges me with every touch of her hand.

"Darling Myka," her eyes glisten as she looks at me. "You are welcome," her hands not letting me go. "You will have me."

"Thank you," I say and wrap my arms around her waist, careful not to spill the wine.

She reaches her hand behind her back and takes my hand. She me pulls towards the coffee table, where we sit down, indulge ourselves on truly decadent cheeses and wines, and play a game of Risk (which she wins this time) until it's time to sleep today off.


	3. Chapter 3: Husband

Chapter Three: Husband

By the time March rolls in, we are at a disused NATO base in Mid-Wales, a place sufficiently secluded to keep Warehouse operations out of the public eye yet close enough to main lines and infrastructure.

Myka settled into a routine very quickly: up at half five in the morning, jog, shower. Then breakfast and catching up on news inside the Warehouse and out, then a first bout of objectives for the day from her office in our cottage. She makes her way to the substation mid-morning, often not to be seen until late afternoon, depending on what the day holds. Late afternoon is her time to catch up with the Mothership, as Claudia fondly analogised the Warehouse, and much of it is for her personal benefit as it is the substation's. Most evenings she will walk back into the cottage between six or seven in the evening; but on half of them, she will go back into her office for conference calls with partners west of the Atlantic, lasting well into the night.

My routine is less intense, and – in fact – less of a routine altogether. I was officially instated as a Warehouse Adjunct in January, a position created especially for me, which endows me with the responsibilities of structuring and maintaining the substation under Myka's purview and watchful eye. Nothing more. I was allowed to, and even encouraged, to keep my practice. So on occasion I leave the peaceful nothingness that surrounds our residence in the wild valleys of Wales and live the high city life for a few days at the time, distracting myself with the normality of business life.

Over the past few weeks, however, I work almost exclusively with Myka, the Warehouse and the substation. Some of my days are busier than others. A few weeks ago, when we were testing the data and power grids of the substation and gateway, I worked solidly for 5 days without sleeping, coordinating exhaustive complex simulations with Claudia and the Eurika team in South Dakota and a handful of MI5 engineers here. Our tests pushed the systems to their absolute limit and were lauded a huge success.

On other days - today, for example - there is no sense of urgency about my work, no real pressure. So, I allow myself the luxury of waking up when daylight is a firmly established fact, stroll leisurely into the kitchen and brew Myka and myself proper coffee and proper tea: a white Americano (minus the extra shot – this isn't her first coffee of the day and she needs to mind her caffeine consumption) and a traditional, loose-leaf, white-no-sugar. I collect the two steamy mugs and make my way to her office.

I knock gingerly on the doorframe. Myka mutters from her desk.

"Good morning, darling," I usher myself in, place the coffee on her desk. There are two freshly emptied mugs on it already.

"Hey," she hums, on autopilot, not registering my presence fully.

"Busy day?" I place a kiss at the top of her head.

"Hmmmmph," she hums again, still on autopilot. She is typing and retyping furiously, flicking between several reports on the three screens and two computers she is in front of.

I watch her as she summarises complex information concisely in seconds. "This is truly an admirable talent you have," I muse aloud and lay my hand on her shoulder. I'm a fast reader, but Myka has transcended speed reading to an art form of analysis and synthesis. I stand over her for another minute then rub her shoulder lightly before turning to head out of her office.

My touch shifts her consciousness from her work to the room.

"Hey, wait," she reaches her hand backwards, towards me, her other hand finishes typing with a vengeance. "Come back."

I grab hold of her hand and she pulls me towards her, turning away from her desk, wrapping both her arms around my waist. "Good morning," she lingers against me.

"I wouldn't want to be a distraction, you know," I place my tea on her desk.

"This isn't a distraction," her response is a soft murmur.

I cradle her face in my palms and pull it up towards me, she is sporting a pair sleepy eyes and a contented smile. "Really?" I raise an eyebrow.

She hums her agreement. "This," she pushes her chair back a bit and pulls me into her lap "is a methodical break."

A light chuckle escapes my lips as I land on her.

"How busy is your day?" her question indicates she wasn't entirely engulfed by her work a few moments ago.

I place an arm around her shoulder, to busy my fingers with the warmth at the back of her neck. "Not as busy as yours," I know she knows my day's agenda better than I do.

"Yeah," she exhales. "Big week, right?"

I nod and look at her screens. "Are these the applications for the experiment?"

"Yes. There was a last minute request for some extra figures and _another_ risk assessment," she rolls her eyes.

I scan her additions to the already draconian document and sigh. Bureaucracy seems to have become the bane of her existence. This is complicated in the nonsensical way, even for me. "Is it about done?"

"Nearly," her sleepy eyes glint with a hidden smile and she tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear, exposing my neck and jawline. She then leans in for light kisses, travelling from my clavicle up towards my ear.

I release a soft sigh, relenting to her touch initially, but then pulling away. On one hand, I do not want _this_ to stop; on the other, _this_ will extend far beyond Myka's idea of a methodical break. I know full well that she does not wish to start today – of all days – behind schedule, not matter how relaxed or radiant she may feel afterwards. She tightens her hold on me, her lips firming around my earlobe. I swallow the wanton gasp bubbling through me. There is a way to dampen the spirits, and as reluctant as I am to use it… "Isn't Pete landing about now?"

She ceases her caress and exhales, admitting defeat. "You're evil," she growls.

I place a gentle kiss on her lips. "Tonight," I promise.

/ /

Helena leaves me in my office slightly light headed to finish up this morning's orders. I reverted to a military style if management because there is too much to do, not enough time and far too many parts. Plus, actual army folks are involved, and they seem to work better when you speak their language.

I spend a few more minutes tidying up the risk assessment that will – hopefully – allow us to open the gateway to the Warehouse for the first time. No simulations, no scenarios. The real deal. Come to think of it, this will be the first time _a_ substation will have opened _a_ gateway to _the_ Warehouse. I can't help but smile and feel a little bit proud at this thought. And then – with three clicks – it's submitted to the committee of Generals and elected officials that will sign it off.

I breathe out to mark the completion of this milestone and think about what's about to happen. I'm terrified and excited and stressed and exhilarated because this is what we have been working towards over the past three years. This is what _I_ have been working towards over the past three years.

Not that I need the added pressure, really, but this feels like a defining moment. For me, for Helena, for the team, for the Warehouse: for everyone and everything I've come to know and love over the past, holy crap, nearly twenty years.

I take a minute to appreciate everything that led to this.

I feel a sharp twitch in my left palm and it seizes, a reminder of an old injury. I push my thumb into my curled, stiff fist and rub my clenched palm harshly, adding pressure from my fingers to the back of my hand. This is a humbling reminder of how fragile everything is, in this life I've come to know and love.

It takes me a few moments to work the knots out from my hand and I spend another minute stretching my palm out and back, exercising it, tensing and releasing in preparation for the next few days, like it's a proxy to the whole of me.

I head upstairs to change into something that will suit today's challenges: while we wait for the thumbs up from the British and European authorities, we have final checks and tests, final tightening of ropes and cables – literal and figurative. This means running and crawling and reaching. With and without tools. Today's attire is cargos and a synthetic running long-sleeve.

On my way out the cottage, I notice Helena curled on the sofa, reading. I rush over to her, bend over the back of the sofa, pressing a kiss on her cheek and leaning my chin on her shoulder.

"Hello there," she coos, not lifting her eyes from her tablet, reaching for her tea.

"I just wanted to wish you a wonderful day," I say.

"You'll see me soon enough," she rubs her cheek against mine and sips her tea.

"I also wanted to say thank you," I don't mean for it to, but it comes as a whisper.

She swallows a mouthful of tea a bit too quickly, my comment taking her by surprise. "Whatever for, darling?"

"For knowing me better than anyone else," it's a rich admission for a lightly made comment.

I can feel her cheek stretching with a smile against mine. "The pleasure is all mine."

I push myself up from her and head off to the substation – a quick and muddy, ten-minute drive from our cottage. The substation is inside an old NATO base, which means there is a secure perimeter around it. So unlike the Warehouse, we have a hydraulic gate and barbed wire fences hidden within hedges. And a minefield. There is even a minefield.

We had to amp security up considerably – mostly because there are far more people per square mile in Wales than there are in South Dakota, but also because we don't have the backing of the Secret Service. Or any agency, in fact. We are pretty much on our own out here, so we made sure that the substation is harder to find, harder to get in to and harder to get out of.

As I drive up the access road, the substation looks surreal. It's a bit like the Warehouse, but much smaller: it's carved into the side of a mountain, and rusted enough to blend into the rocks behind it. On the inside, there are five man-made halls and about twenty natural caves dotted around them. A perfect setting to house the technology for the gateway, and secure artefacts until they can be moved to the Warehouse.

I get past a number of secure doors and reach the Helm, our equivalent of Artie's Office. It's a lot more hi-tech and a lot less steampunk. Claudia certainly had a field day kitting us out. I'm greeted by the team of agents who were selected to join us – the first European Warehouse team in over a century.

I have three MI5 engineers, whom I know by first name and surname initial only: Marianne C, Jason D and Sue O. We call to each other by initials: Mac, Jade, So, Mob. They are – what I, as a foreigner, would describe as quintessentially British: they drink nothing but tea, are obsessed with their pets, have the driest, most ironic sense of humour and they do unthinkable things with their fries: cover them in vinegar or cheese or Chinese food or curry. Or – something I don't quite understand why, but is really delicious – have thick cut fries between two slices of buttered, white bread.

There are also the mainland folks, Karl and Martin, The Swiss and The Swede; and not forgetting Helena. Seven of us, in total, in rather closed quarters, in the middle of nowhere. Much like Pete and I had to get used to each other pretty quickly, these guys did a great job at becoming a great team _very_ fast.

I have to hand it to Mrs. Frederic, she sure knows how to pick 'em.

We prep for the morning staff meeting and pull readings from sensors, double checking all the protocols for overnight activity and security. Helena arrives in time for the start of the meeting and we plot the day and the week out. I get an email halfway through with an initial confirmation for the gateway experiment to go ahead in 48 hours. We are expecting final confirmation to arrive later today.

The team is excited and noticeably nervous. I snap out of my newly found military precision mode to have a more personable conversation with them. We go through concerns, issues, even fears. They each say something, even Karl. Even Helena. Even me.

We write them on the whiteboards and agree to check in on them every six to eight hours. I suppose I can't snap out of military precision mode so easily – it's just so comforting…

Jade hands us each a three-paged a check list for the final diagnostic and we set off to go through them. I've barely started on mine when my Farnsworth blares. It's Pete. I check my watch – he should be close by.

"Hey!" I greet him. I realise now how excited I am to know I'm about to _see_ him in a few minutes.

"Hey," he says, holding is Farnsworth while looking around. "I don't know where I am anymore," he says. "There is no cell reception. My car's navigation is not working because it's too friggin' cloudy, and I don't think the signs are in English."

"Welcome to Wales," I say.

"Some welcome," he says, now looking at the screen. I smile at him. I missed him. "I followed your instructions, but I wound up on this tiny road I wasn't sure I should be on, so I went back to this…" he goes silent for a minute. "What is it? Village? Settlement?... This tiny place with an inn and a church and roads with no names, and too many numbers."

"What's the inn called?"

"The Lan-Wide-Inn-Ee-Coh-Ed Inn?" he struggles to pronounce the Welsh name.

"Yup. I know the place. Wait for me, I'll come and get you. Give me ten," I close the Farnsworth and sit at the main console at the Helm. "Track team," I say.

A small window lights up on the screen, tracking the signals of all six team members on a blueprint of the substation. So and Jade are closest. "Page So. Page Jade," two windows open, showing me a live cast from a protective helmet fitted with two cameras, a bunch of sensors and mics, all broadcasting on Farnsworth frequencies. One of Claudia's developments, of course, which she dubbed HeadGear (she thought it would be funny if everyone had their own, personal HG).

"Mob, this is So," she acknowledges my virtual presence.

"Mob, this is Jade," he picks up a second later.

"Pete got lost and I need to pick him up from the village. I'm leaving my checklist at the Helm, in case either of you fancies getting a head start for me," I say.

"Slacker," Jade says.

"Do you want to go get him?" I give him an alternative and a crooked smile.

"Nope," he is quick to respond. "I prefer the company of wires. I also think he will be devastated if it weren't you who picks him up."

I chuckle. They got to know us so well so quickly.

"No worries, boss, we've got you," So signs the conversation off, and I go to get Pete.

Part of adjusting to this new reality was not seeing the South Dakota team so often. We catch up every day (and more than once a day), but having spent over 15 years with them, through thick and thin, in very close proximity, and even closer with Pete – not having them physically around is hard. It was a relief to begin with, but then it got hard.

My relationship with Pete has and its ups and downs, given the amount of baggage he and I share. We got together after the Paracelsus ordeal, but it took us about eight months to find ourselves settling into a cushy, predictable life as a couple, the kind of life we would expect to have when we are seventy (if we are lucky to reach seventy). It was very comfortable and very vanilla.

It took us just under another year to agree that this isn't what we wanted, and another few months to declare our romantic involvement as a worthwhile experiment that reached its end. Sometimes I wonder how come we have an amazing partnership and friendship, but when we threw in romance and sex, we became the dullest couple.

I still love him and probably always will. I think he loves me too. This causes a few awkward moments every once in a while, the most awkward were around the time of my incident, but we work through them as they come up. I work hard when they come up because he means so much to me. He can influence me more than anyone, even more than Helena does. I really missed him over the past six months.

I reach Llanwddyn-y-Coed, the closest village to the substation. The Inn, which is also the local pub and the only place you could get a drink, a meal or a bed within the 30 mile radius, is on the junction between two minor A roads, the streets with no names and too many numbers, as Pete so aptly described.

Pete's SUV, a shiny rental made for suburban soccer moms, sticks out like a sore thumb. Mine, on the other hand, a rugged old Land Rover with more mud on it than metal, fits right in. He is standing by the car, in a suit, holding his phone up, trying to get a signal.

He obviously doesn't clock me, in my rusty car and mountaineering outfit. I look more like a farmer than I do a member of a secret non-government organisation.

I sneak up behind him. "Don't bother," I say when I'm close enough to give him a scare.

He jumps, clutches his phone to his chest and turns around. "Mykes! Don't do that," he wraps me in a hug.

I laugh and hug him tightly back.

He puts his hands on my shoulders and pushes me backwards he can take a good look at me, head to toe. "Lookin' good, Missus. Country life suits you better than an Italian suit."

"It's not been that long," I say and play-punch his arm.

"Funny how I didn't miss that so much," he says.

I hug him again. "It's so great to have you here," I say. "Come on," I grab his arm and pull him towards my car.

"Wait, what about mine?" he gestures towards his shiny, black beast.

"Trust me, it's better off staying here." I say, and hold my passenger door open for him.

He runs to his car, takes out his travel bag and runs back towards me. He motions towards my Rover "Is this a budget thing? Because I'm sure we can afford something nicer for you to roll around in, you know…"

I laugh. "Just you wait."

We stop at the cottage to get him changed before we head to the substation. He is more than impressed with the work Claudia and Helena had done with fitting the Helm and the substation.

I take him through our gadgets and he cannot help but be his Pete-self, getting excited, touching every single thing within his reach. At the end of the tour I hand him an HG, and ask him to follow me. I page So as we walk, and we catch up with her.

"Boss," she says when she notices us.

"So, this is Pete; Pete – So." I introduce them.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person, sir," she shakes his hand.

"Sir…" he gives me a sideways glance. "My pleasure," he puts on a charm offensive.

She hands me my checklist and I take Pete with me on the day's duties.

When we are sufficiently far from her, he asks, very _very_ quietly, "I thought her name was Sue, not So. Is that also a Welsh thing?"

I smile. "No, that's a team thing. We call each other by our initials. She's Sue O. So."

He mock gasps, "Do they know your secret?!"

"If by 'secret' you mean my middle name, then, yes, they do."

"Cool," he nods. "Mob," he ponders this further, "Mob and Boss." He says it a few times, enjoying the ring of it. "That's a whole other calling, Mykes."

I roll my eyes. "You'll probably wind up Peel or something," I think out loud. "It's just a callsign."

We walk into the hall that houses the computing mainframe, and start working through the checklist. Pete is coming up with alternative callsigns for himself, then moves on to make some up for the rest of the team. He postulates Steve as "Siege", and Claudia as "Seed". Artie is "Anne", which starts a whole set of one liners.

"What's HG's callsign?" his question drips with innuendo.

"Helena."

"That's not a callsign, that's her name," he's obviously disappointed.

"Pete…" I'm beginning to lose my temper.

"Okay, okay..." he lets off.

For the rest of the day we make a bit of small talk, but mostly I show him around the mainframe, explain how things work, where things have gone wrong in simulations, things to pay attention to.

He finally loses his ability to concentrate at 4pm. I send him back to the Helm to check in with the Karl, who is prepping evening handover. I get paged to the Helm at 6:30 for a team meeting. Pete has already made himself at home with the team. I check emails once I'm there and find that the application has been approved and we are cleared to open the gateway for the first time in 45 hours and 22 minutes.

Martin brings out a bottle of a locally brewed cider (the only thing they would let him walk out of the pub with while it is still capped) that we share between us. It's a good thing it's only one bottle, because – even for the experienced cider drinkers among us – this is strong stuff.

We run through the list of worries from the morning, make amendments, pool results from the checklists, and hand the nightshift over to Mac and Martin.

When Pete, Helena and I walk out we realise it has been raining most of the afternoon and the access road has become a crosshatch of muddy streams. The three of us head back to the cottage in my Rover which proves – once more – its worth as a proper utility vehicle.

Pete is happily sharing his impressions of the team from the back, but pipes down once the terrain gets so uneven, his head hits the roof of the car as I traverse a pothole or two. I may have also done that on purpose to shut him up.

Helena is quiet, sitting next to me. We exchange a quick glance, I grin crookedly at her, her smile back is aloof. This confirms the nature of the silence: she has a promise to keep tonight.

She opens up a bit when we get home, engages Pete to help out with dinner. I go to make his bed in the guest room downstairs. At dinner we catch up on gossip, and Pete goes to bed early – still refusing to sleep on planes.

I start clearing the dishes from the table, stacking them on the counter. Helena steps up behind me, her body flush against mine.

"Stop," she orders, her voice is a light whisper, and she pushes her hands into the front pockets of my cargos. Her palms are outstretched inside them, she is running her hands up and down my thighs.

My lips fall open with a quiet moan that quickly turns into a harsh breath as she rakes her nails on the way up, through the fabric. I gasp her name.

"Quiet," she whispers into my ear just before kissing it, then running her tongue along its shell.

I am struggling to keep quiet between what her hands and lips are doing. Her left hand stays in my pocket, alternating smooth touches and slight scrapes while her right creeps up. I try to turn my head, to kiss her or return a touch, but she holds her right hand against my lower abdomen, keeping my body right where it is. She pushes herself harder against me, her front to my back. She uses her hand on my core as leverage, and as she presses it, my lungs empty of air.

"Keep still."

When she releases me, I breathe in an urgent but silent breath, and she uses that second to unfasten my button and zipper, her fingers lingering at the top of my underwear, threatening an imminent descent.

She brushes the tips of her fingers lightly under the hem of my shirt while her lips trail silent and idle kisses up and down my neck, between my shoulder and my ear, her left hand grazing the inside of my thigh – as far as the pocket would allow.

Then her right hand pushes downwards until she cups me lightly over my underwear, without urgency, without pressure. Just holds. Her left hand's touch turns softer as well. She starts a slow and gentle, almost ghosting rhythm against me, her hand in my pants and her core against my backside.

Slowly but surely her touch hardens, her breath against my ear turns harsher, her pelvis grinding harder into me.

I want to whisper her name, I want to ask her not to stop, but I don't. I obey.

She doesn't need to be asked to not stop. She reaches a speed – neither fast nor slow – and keeps it, never faltering, not missing a beat.

I can feel her trembling behind me and against my neck and I shudder, against her, with her – quietly, as I was ordered.

We stand still for another minute, catching our breath and I turn around to face her, reaching for her lips with mine for a slow kiss. My fingers tug at the belt loops of her work pants. "You promised," I whisper against her.

"I promised," she echoes.

I take her to our bedroom, upstairs, for a night that has very little sleep but leaves us both rested and content.

When my alarm goes off in the morning, she decides to join me on my run. I take her to on a short three mile loop that takes us to past the village, to an old mill by the river. It's a beautiful time of year out here and reminds me of Colorado – nature waking up into spring. The leaves are starting to grow on the trees, flowers beginning to bloom. Daffodils popping up everywhere, crocuses already out in force.

"How are you liking it so far?" she asks as we walk back towards the cottage, cooling down.

"Liking what?" I try to clarify. "There are plenty of 'it's to consider," I say.

"Okay," she answers, her tone suggesting we're playing a game, and she'll play along. "How are you liking Wales?"

I am giving the part of Wales we live in thorough consideration. "You couldn't possibly tell that it is less densely populated than South Dakota; not where we are, anyway," I muse, "and it's much greener. There's also the added bonus of a new language." I've reached a conclusion: "Yeah, I'd say I like it."

"And your new position?"

I angle a look at her and sigh, only she will ask me questions I'm not comfortable answering, but need to be honest about. "It's very demanding. I am enjoying it, but it's so intense," I sigh again. "And it's not sustainable. I'll be able to keep this pace up for another six…" I weigh it, "eight months, tops."

"How are you liking the cottage?"

I smile. I love our cottage. "It's a welcome change to Univille and Featherhead," I'm referring to our living arrangement in the US: my apartment and Helena's house. Neither were as comfortable as the cottage. Helena and I always kept our own places – either I was travelling, or she was, or we were travelling together. When we were stateside, I had to stay close to the Warehouse and work long hours there; she needed her own space. All those practicalities were topped off by the fact that we never knew when she (or I) will be moved on to another assignment. So now, that we actually occupy the same household… "It's very domestic," I say. I don't mean it to be good or bad. It just _is_. "How are you liking it?" I check back with her.

She is quiet for a moment, thinking _in_ , like she does, and then chuckles lightly. "Our grandfather had a summer house in the Peaks, a lovely little stone cottage," she recalls with a gentle smile. "Damp in summer, freezing in winter. It felt sturdy. As a child I believed it had grown out of the rock it was built on and nothing could tear it down. It always inspired such a sense of calm in me. I have such happy memories from there," she falls silent again, contemplating. "Our cottage feels the same," she says, quietly, hushed.

I don't know why, but I blush and smile back at her. "And what about work?"

"Who wants to know?" she checks.

"What do you mean?"

"Who is asking: is it Substation Head of Operations Bering, or Myka?"

It's been a long time since Helena separated the professional me from the personal me. Not since when she first came back, which was just as Pete and I were making sense of how to not be together anymore. Part of my way to deal with the break up was to have a clear and well defined line between who I was at work and who I was outside it.

She landed into a time when everything was difficult for pretty much everyone. Both Pete and I were heartbroken. I don't ever remember Pete being as quiet as he had been over those few months. And while we were trying really hard to find a way to be around each other without it being awkward, everyone else was also learning how to not be awkward around us.

It's so ironic that the less awkward we try to be, the more awkward we become, exponentially.

In the middle of all this, Mrs. Frederic debriefed us about the situation with Helena and I volunteered. Everyone made the assumption that bones will be jumped instantaneously. But no bones were jumped. In fact, it took Helena and I almost a year to get involved. Not for lack of want or lust, but for lack of coordination. She and I had to learn how to _be_ around each other, trust each other.

During that first year with Helena, having that clear, well defined line between the professional me and the personal me was most difficult because of the nature of my relationship with her. Agent Bering was her body guard, round-the-clock presence. Agent Bering was spending a lot of time with her, talking to her, being with her, keeping her safe. Myka loved her for who she was, darkness and all, and all Myka wanted to do was spend time with her and talk to her and be with her.

I felt I had to work extra hard to keep the personal me from her, because I didn't want to have another messy relationship. Because I couldn't deal with another heartbreak. But as we got used to being around each other, as we trusted each other more and more, as we established a life for her away from the Warehouse, it became easier to balance the personal and professional.

But now Helena works with me, at the Warehouse. The vast majority of the time she and I spend together these days is about being a great professional team. Love has no official room in this dynamic. It's always there. It underlines everything we do because it's the reason we work together so well. But it's not explicitly expressed at work. Never at work, but pretty much anywhere else.

"It's Myka," I answer her question.

"Work is interesting. It's involving and intense," she gestures towards me, having picked the same word. "I have a great team of people with whom I work, the technical challenges are immense and truly mind boggling at times. It is hugely exciting."

"I sense a but," I say as we reach the front door.

"I sometimes worry that the uniqueness of the challenge is unparalleled," she says. "Right now, I cannot think what could ever be more exciting than what will happen in thirty three hours and," she grabs my arm to look at my watch "forty minutes."

I chuckle. "Neither can I, except my excitement is matched with sheer terror."

She leans into me for a tentative hug and stays there for a moment. "I tell you what else I like about my job," she pulls away and a devilish grin creeps up her cheeks.

"What?" I indulge her.

"My boss has a gorgeous ass," she pinches my backside and walks in.

I knew this was coming and yet, it still surprises me.

We walk into the kitchen and tag-team making breakfast. We do this in busy mornings. We have been doing it for a really long time, actually. We have a pace for making pancakes together while we take turns taking showers and getting dressed. I know this is idiotic and girly to be excited about having an efficient morning routine, but this is beyond good orchestration, this is a thing of beauty.

By the time Pete strolls in, we are work-ready and breakfast is served. Helena puts her special in front of him. She calls it "The Pete Special" (even though he never tried it), because she is convinced it's a dish made _just_ for him. I told her it misses bacon to pass his scrutiny. We finally get to put our theories to the test.

He eyes his stack of pancakes suspiciously, it looks a bit unorthodox for what he'd expect. In between layers of pancake are mushy fillings of odd colours – mostly shades of brown. He scrunches his nose at it. "I would never turn down a pancake, and Myka always says your pancakes are legendary, HG, which I don't think she meant as a euphemism, but I am not sure about all the brown."

"Try it," she eggs him on. He slices into the top three layers and balances the small wedge on his fork. He touches the tip of his tongue to it, like a fussy child. "Oh, come on," Helena says dismissively. He looks her square in the eye as he takes the forkful in.

"If something happens to me—" he starts with his mouth full, "Oh my god, Helena," he finishes chewing and swallows. "This is amazing," he takes another bite. "What is it? PB&J?"

"And B and C," I say. "With Maple of top".

"Banana _and_ chocolate? This is genius," he acknowledges with his mouth full.

Helena darts a victorious look towards me. I smile back at her, a small, satisfied smile.

"You know what would make it perfect?" he says, shovelling another slice in.

I raise an eyebrow at her, then look at him "What, Pete?"

"Bacon," He says and I smile broadly at Helena.

"Smug never looked good on you, darling," she says.

Pete finishes his breakfast utterly unaware of my epic win, and we head off for another gruelling day of systems diagnosis and a few final simulations. By the time we finish everything that needs doing before the E Day, as Jade calls it, it's nearly midnight.

Then there is a set of calls with the Mothership and the Pentagon and Langley and when we finally leave the substation it is zero one thirty of E Day, and the E is due to happen in 14 hours and thirty minutes, give or take.

I'm wired and nervous, my brain can't stop running through all the things that we'd already done, all the things that still need doing. Helena takes the keys to the Rover from my pocket and settles behind the wheel. As we approach the main gate, we notice a small crate marked "WH13" on the outside of the gate. It's relatively small, about the same size of a fruit crate.

Helena slams the breaks.

"I've got a weird feeling about this," Pete says and climbs out of the car.

"Get your ass back into the car, Lattimer!" I yell after him and reach for my Farnsworth. He makes a slow approach to the crate, Tesla and flashlight drawn.

Helena has her phone out and is paging So and Karl. "Code 21, I repeat, code 21. Unidentified immobile object."

I get Artie on the Farnsworth. "There is a box out here, it looks like a Warehouse box," I open the car door and jump out, "Pete, get back here right now!" I yell at him again, "It's about two by two by one feet, wooden," I describe it to Artie.

"The crate is marked with the Regent's sigil," he yells.

I pass that on to Artie and look to where Pete is. He is nearly twenty feet away from crate, moving slowly towards it. I am twenty feet behind him, Helena is still in the car another twenty feet behind me. I hear the whirring of the substation's jeep approaching behind us. "Pete, stop. Now. We have protocols for this."

"It's glowing on the inside," he shouts back to me and takes another step forward.

At that exact same moment Artie informs me "There has been a breach, nobody move or touch anything," and I feel a sudden and almighty gust of air lashing across me a like a whip, like an explosion, but without fire. It rips through my stomach and I can feel myself being thrown up and backwards.

/ /

There is nothing but a high pitched sound and darkness.

The darkness fades out slowly and there are faint white dots moving around in a rather blurry field of vision.

I climb out of the Land Rover – it is turned over, leaning comfortably on the passenger side. I falter on my way down and collapse at the bottom of the vehicle.

Someone runs up to me. By features and size I reckon it's Mac. She is shouting. I can only hear her when she is inches away from me. "Helena, wait right there!" she prompts me up pats me down. "Thank heavens you're fine," she says.

"What happened?" I ask.

"There was an explosion of sorts," she says.

The last two minutes of my consciousness snap back into my recollection. I become hyper alert. "Myka? Pete?"

"Pete has been air lifted, Myka is over there," she points towards the gate, blown open, two ambulances parked outside it.

"Anyone else?" I ask.

"So has a bruised arm on account of debris. Karl's hair is messed up it may take him an hour to put it right again," she is smiling.

Mac's a good egg. I smile back.

She helps me gain my balance and we rush to the ambulance Myka is at. She is conscious, covered in blood, strapped to a stretcher that is being hauled onto the ambulance. She is protesting: "I am fine! See? It's not mine. Let me..." she tugs at the cannula under her nose.

The paramedic is having none of it, placing the plastic tubing where it ought to be. "Your friend said you were hurled across the length of a rugby pitch, love, like you were converting a try. You are not fine until we say you are."

I squeeze Mac's arm and push myself towards the ambulance's doors. "Let the poor man do his job, Myka," I climb up and look at the paramedic. "I'll take care of her, you drive."

She looks at me, rests her head back on the stretcher and I reach to pick debris from her hair. The engine of the ambulance rumbles, we lurch forward and she closes her eyes.

 _I hear a dull thud and a faint cracking sound from the next aisle over. I cannot make myself run any faster than I already am, rushing towards the end of the stack to back up the other side of it._

 _I know they would be there, I know they would both be there, but I can't calculate who had hurt whom. From a distance, in the dim light of the Warehouse, while galloping forward, I can see her on the floor, on her back, no one else around._

 _Of all the things that could be running through me now, I feel anger and pain. They are rising within me like a raging tide, pulsing through my veins like amphetamine, tensing my muscles, sharpening my vision, tunnelling my intentions – until all I can see is what is directly in front of me and absolutely nothing else._

 _I recognise this feeling all too well. Its rush, its exhilaration, its single-mindedness. Its danger._

 _I reach her and I look her over from head to toe. Her breathing is shallow. Her eyes torn open. A drop of blood draws a red trail from her nose down her cheek._

" _Myka.." I pant as I fall to my knees next to her._

 _Her eyes are darting quickly, unfocused, her pupils uneven. She exerts herself to try and say something, but all I hear are shallow exhales. I cast a glance down her body, for signs of injuries. Her left hand is trembling, clenched tightly on her hip, her right hand is limp, her tesla barely in her grip. There are no obvious signs of external trauma._

 _I change my angle above her so I mirror her position and reach for her head, and then I feel it – a pronounced depression in her skull above her right ear. I gasp at the feel of her, deformed, cracked; my fingers pull away of their own volition, shocked. They twitch. There is something on them - warm, slick. I turn my hand over - it's blood. Her blood._

" _Hold on," I try to say, all that comes out is a muted whisper._

 _I look up and around, ears and eyes perked for signs of someone coming to her rescue. I have no time to wait, so I pat her down, rummage through her pockets to find her Farnsworth. I crack it open and hail on all frequencies._

 _The screen switches on, there is a blurry image of what looks like stacks flashing by._

" _Where are you?" I hear Steve's voice from the speaker._

" _Sedona South Nineteen," I say, my voice cracking._

" _Sedona South Nineteen," he repeats and the screen goes blank._

 _There is a crate behind me which can be fashioned into a stretcher fairly easily, so I take it apart with my bare hands. I bend the planks of soft pine on top of and under one another until a frame is formed. I then push shorter planks into it, creating a supportive surface._

 _The only thing holding this structure together is pressure and pressure alone. It must feel a lot like I feel right now – its insides pressing its frame so hard it could explode and fall to all the pieces it is made of; and no one will be able to put it together in the exact same way again._

 _This thought burns through me like a bullet and I clench my teeth tightly to swallow any sounds that will give away the pain._

 _A hand is placed on my back, between my shoulders and shakes me into reality, it owner out of breath, but not out of his senses._

" _Stretcher, good thinking," Steve speaks in short, sharp bursts, what his breath allows him._

" _Head injury," I say, coldly._

 _He leans over her to check her and I feel my eyes welling up. I raise my hand to wipe the dampness at my cheeks, and feel a harsh scratch. I look at my hands and they are cut in several places, splinters of wood stuck in them, soaking up my blood. There is no sensation, though. I cannot feel my hands._

 _He takes his jacket and shirt off, remaining in a light, short sleeved tee. He says something to me, I can tell by his lips' movement, but I don't hear it. I don't understand._

" _Helena," he repeats, his voice sounds like it is echoing from the bottom of a ravine, coming out long seconds after his lips move. "I need your jacket, and your shirt if you can, uhm, spare it."_

 _I oblige, but my body remains stiff with the pain and the anger._

" _I need your help," he points to the other side of Myka to where he is._

 _Sound and vision have caught up to each other and I am snapped back into single-mindedness. "Support her head. Her neck mustn't move," I instruct._

" _On my count," his eyes find mine. "One, two…" We pull her up onto the stretcher on three, and secure her head with my jacket and Steve's shirt._

 _He throws his jacket over her, tucking the sleeves under her arms, securing her to the makeshift frame. He takes position at her head and looks at me again. "Ready?"_

 _I nod firmly. "On three," I say and we nod to each other once, twice and on the third we stand up and make haste towards the security post, four aisles over._

 _The next few hours are a blur of sight and sound, until Kevin, Steve's partner, shoves a can of an abomination of a soft drink into my hands and forces me to drink it._

" _This is truly vile," I say with utter disdain, the whole of my being is shaken with disgust at this chemical concoction that I cannot believe is mass marketed to living things, let alone children._

" _And we're not leaving here until you down the whole thing," his voice is gentle and soft._

 _I do my best to do as I am told. As I tighten my grip around the can, I feel a sting of pain in my hands. I look down and notice my hands have been treated and are in bandages._

" _Myka?" I whisper._

" _She's still in surgery," he answers and I realise we are at a hospital. I look around and they are all there: Claudia is sitting on the row of chairs perpendicular to the one Kevin and I are on, Steve is to her left and they are working - papers strewn on the table in front of them, computers set up. Arthur is standing away from us all, looking out the doors of the waiting room._

" _Where's Pete?" I ask._

 _Kevin raises his eyebrows in what I could only interpret as surprise or disbelief. Claudia and Steve turn their heads towards us, I obviously spoke louder than I thought I had._

" _Pete is downstairs in the ER, getting his arm cast," Claudia states._

 _I suddenly recall a fragment of a memory from before I caught up to a bludgeoned Myka. I remember thinking that_ theboth of them _were there. Myka being one, Pete being the other._

 _My heart stops for a moment._

 _Pete._

 _I feel blood draining from my face and extremities, a cold sweat washes over me as an acute sensation of nausea takes hold. Kevin reaches for a bin and places it between my knees. I drop the can as I heave into the bin._

 _Claudia walks out of the room and comes back a minute later with a towel. She sits down in front of me just in time for me to regain enough stability to sit up straight._

" _We don't blame ya, H.," she says and hands me to towel._

" _It was Pete," I say, or ask, trying to fully fathom what had happened._

 _She nods, lips pressed sternly together. "We're sure something whammied him, because he was behaving very un-Pete-like for a couple of days now," she continues. "But we don't know what it was that whammied him, except we know it was inside the Warehouse," she pauses. "Which makes this a lot more fun, because who doesn't like searching for a needle in a ginormous warehouse of needles?"_

 _I press the towel to my temple, it feels sore, and I wince. I look at Claudia, puzzled._

" _Yup, you two duked it out," she narrates._

 _Kevin cracks another can of the abomination._

" _No more, please," I say._

" _I'll just get you a coke, then," he says, and gives my shoulder a small squeeze as he gets up._

 _Claudia takes his seat next to me._

" _I cannot recall a damn thing," I whisper to her._

" _We all clocked Pete was being baddie-of-the day around the same time, but you were closest to where he was," She says._

" _I remember…" I mutter. "I remember until the security post."_

" _Ah," Claudia looks up. "We got Myka out of the Warehouse and into the chopper, and by the time the chopper was gone, you were too."_

 _I look at her bemusedly. This is not helpful._

" _The next thing that happens – All Farnsworths go off with Pete's signal, but it's you on the screen saying you found him."_

 _I try to locate anything within me that will help them; us; me find the missing pieces. I find nothing._

" _We rush over to where you tell us to find you, Pete is knocked out and his arm is in, erm... an unnatural position."_

 _I close my eyes and take a deep breath. "I am truly sorry," I say softly._

" _You don't need to be, H. Like I've already said a bunch of times – absolutely no blame here. Any one of us would have done the same thing."_

 _The waiting room doors open and Kevin walks in with Vanessa._

 _She confides with Arthur near the doors, they speak quietly and none of us can hear them. Kevin walks over with a can of Coca Cola, which I still find rather revolting, but is far better than the alleged energy drink he gave me earlier._

 _I sip it gently, now feeling an ache in my jaw._

 _Arthur turns and looks at me while talking to Vanessa, then turns back to her. On top of the pain and anger, a new emotion joins the concoction within me. It does not flood me like the other two did, it trickles, drips. I recognise it from a handful of times in my life. Remorse._

 _A few moments later Vanessa walks up to me and sits on the table, where Claudia was a few moments ago._

" _How are you doing, Helena?" she asks._

" _I reckon I had been better," I answer, and it is the most honest answer I have._

 _She smiles a gentle Doctor's smile. "Myka is still in surgery, and the doctors believe they can repair the damage."_

 _I understand. I remind myself I need to give Vanessa indication to that fact so I nod._

" _Because it is head trauma, we are not sure what state she'll be in when she wakes up."_

 _Claudia bites her lip next to me and grabs my hand. I blink and nod._

" _We will know more in a couple of days, when the swelling goes down." She is searching my eyes, and I nod again, rather stiffly._

" _I want you to call me at any time if your situation changes," she says. "You look like you've been through the ringer yourself."_

 _I wish I knew._

 _She starts to get up and I reach out to her._

" _What about Pete?" I ask._

" _Pete's humerus was fractured and both is ulna and radius were broken in two places." She answers._

 _I wince, my jaw radiates pain and wince again. Claudia joins me empathetically._

" _It's a nasty injury, but the breaks were clean. He should heal soon enough."_

 _Arthur joins us. "He is being moved to a secure Regent facility, until we find what did this to him and neutralise it," he says._

 _Oh, I know that facility well._

" _I better get to it," Claudia says and gets back to Steve._

 _I want to help, I want to offer my help, but I can't seem to bring myself to say or do anything. As the reality of the situation catches up with me, I grow more tired, more aching, more stiff. I start to feel all the places I had sustained impact, as though I feel the bruises forming: my jaw, my left temple and brow, left shoulder, left arm, sternum, right thigh and shin._

" _Can I do anything?" I say after a few minutes._

 _Steve and Claudia look at me, wearing pitiful expressions._

" _Don't you want to rest?" Claudia asks. "You really don't look too well."_

" _I don't know…" my answer trails off. I try to lean my forehead in my right palm, but the bruises at my brow and temple remind me that this is not a favourable position at this moment. "For pity's sake," I spit out._

 _For a few hours Kevin is being the doting husband I will never have: feeding and watering me, distracting me with idle chitchat. At some point a doctor enters the room and repeats what Vanessa explained a few hours back. The only difference being, Myka is out of surgery and is in an intensive care unit in the floor above us._

 _For the following three days I do not sleep at all. Time I am not at Myka's bedside – reading books and newspapers to her, distracting her and myself with idle chitchat (inspired by Kevin) – I spend with Steve and Claudia, sifting through hours' worth of security footage and data from Warehouse systems, trying to locate what it was that affected Pete._

 _On the fourth day, Myka slurs some words towards me while I read to her (and commentate on) the works of Lord Byron. I can't make out what she says, but simply knowing she is awake makes the whole of me lighten, as if the weight of a hundred worlds has been lifted. I stay with her the whole day._

 _On the fifth day she recognises me, Claudia, Steve and Arthur. She asks after Pete, and Claudia has the wits about her to say he was fighting with the vending machine._

 _On the sixth day, Steve calibrates energy readings with minor disturbance data which provide the location of the artefact that affected Pete. A thorough search of the Greek section of the Warehouse reveals a misplaced object hidden in plain sight: what we had suspected to be a protective screen, was – in fact – a misplaced cape, believed to have been Apollo's, an inheritance from Warehouse two. An attempt to neutralise with traditional means results in Pete passing out for a few minutes, but not exhibiting lasting change thereafter._

 _Myka moves both her arms and manages to hold a pen in her right hand and doodle._

 _On the seventh day, we locate several Warehouse two records which contain information about the cape. They provides little insight into our research, which currently focuses on narrowing down the pools of legend referring to Apollo. We begin the backbreaking task of reviewing Greek Mythology with a fine toothcomb, along with volumes of Greek Art, attempting to identify the garment._

 _Claudia and Steve run out of cape jokes._

 _Myka's speech is improving, but it is still difficult to decipher. She begins intensive therapy on the muscles of her left hand._

 _On the eighth day we agree that the Greek Art review is pointless (because when a cape has absolutely no distinguishing marks, it looks much like any other cape, when carved in marble or etched on a vase), and continue reviewing myth._

 _Myka jots me a note during my morning visit to her: 'stop w/classics bring smut'. When I arrive for my evening visit bearing Fingersmith and Lady Chatterley's Lover she smiles and, by all the gods, she is so beautiful._

 _On the ninth day, upon realising we are clutching at straws, we start to seek themes in the piles of mythology we have been scouring. It is a laborious task that we all wish we had Myka for._

 _She, on the other hand, is busying herself with a gruelling therapy regime. Speech, upper and lower body, gentle motorics._

 _On the tenth day we have a few theories about the cape, given available documentation: attire cursed by war, attire cursed by music, attire cursed by unrequited love. The second phase of research begins: identifying techniques for neutralising the artefact. As traditional neutraliser did not work, we split our technique research into two groups: artefacts that share similar attributes of creation and artefacts that share similar affects._

 _Myka speaks. A laboured stammer, but she sounds so much more like herself than she had done over the past week. She asks me how I am doing and jokes about role reversal. "How do you like my darkness now?" I joke back, and she laughs, a little bit, appreciating the fact I made a pop culture reference. Possibly the first in my life._

 _On the eleventh day we narrow down five ways to neutralise the cape. By process of elimination, we come to the conclusion that the cape is cursed by unrequited love, after the fourth method bears fruit: crackle and fizz, and an immediate report that Pete lost consciousness in the Regent's cells._

 _Myka sits up, holds a book, a remote control, a short conversation. She takes three or four steps between a few moments' rest. She cannot sustain activity for too long, and not without discernible effort, but she is getting better. By all accounts, her recovery is staggeringly fast._

 _On the twelfth day Pete wakes up from his artefact-withdrawal-induced-coma with what he calls "the worst emotional hangover ever"._

 _The doctors clear Myka to leave the hospital, so long as she remains close by and attends physiotherapy daily._

 _On the thirteenth day the Regents agree to release Pete to the custody of the Warehouse. Seeing as Myka is due to be released as well, the team and I agree that Myka will stay at my house in Featherhead and Pete will stay at the bed & breakfast._

 _Claudia drives Myka and me to my house and we settle her in my bedroom. While she rests after the upheaval, I walk in to collect beddings for the guest room and the sofa, for Claudia and myself, respectively._

" _What are you up to?" she asks, and if I didn't know any better, she could just be waking up from an afternoon nap on a day off, sleepily calling to me from my bed._

" _Plotting to make Claudia comfortable in the guest bedroom."_

 _She exhales a light laugh. "I want to ask you something when you're done"._

 _I come back after making the bed for Claudia, who has already made herself comfortable with my wired network and smart TV. "What can I do you for?" I walk in and sit atop the chest at the foot of the bed._

" _I remember—," she starts. "Is Pete—," and pauses, "Did you ki—" she can't bring herself to finish._

" _No, I did not," I answer._

 _Her face lights up with relief and she looks up, as if to thank a deity. She pats the bed next to her gently, beaconing me towards her with a slight nudge._

 _I walk up to the side of the bed and sit down on its very edge, trying not to disturb it or her._

" _Closer," she whispers, and I lean gently onto my elbow and stretch towards her, our faces now a mere few inches apart. She raises her left hand, still stiff and a bit coarse, and presses it to my cheek. We exchange an intense gaze that speaks volumes of relief and pride, happiness and fortune but utter not a single word._

 _She closes her eyes, eventually. "Were you going to be all gentlemanly and chivalrous and sleep on the couch?"_

" _I was."_

" _Please don't," she says._

 _Her voice still lacks tonality, I'm not sure if she requests, commands or pleads. "I'd like that very much," I say, but she has already drifted to sleep._

 _On the thirteenth night since Myka's injury I sleep a full night for the first time in two weeks._

 _It takes us another week to get to the bottom of this incident, not without a great deal of awkwardness._

" _What in the name of frack happened?" Claudia asks Pete, who sits opposite her at the dining room table of the bed and breakfast._

" _I don't know!" he shrugs. "I just started to miss her, you know?" his voice tapers off after his eyes catch mine. "Does she really have to be here for this?" he points in my direction, but looks at Arthur, who is sitting next to Claudia. "She's making this super awkward," he mouths the last two words._

 _I leave them to continue the conversation-come-interrogation, and go out to the porch. I text Steve and Kevin who are in charge of ferrying Myka to the hospital today, and then go to sit in the garden._

 _Pete joins me a short while later._

" _Hey," he says, with a bashful, boyish smile._

 _I stand up. "Pete."_

" _Sorry about back there," he points to the house and then looks at me. "There is some stuff I didn't want to put on the record before I talked to you."_

" _I am sorry about your arm," I offer a heartfelt apology._

" _You should have seen the other guy," he laughs nervously and walks towards me. "I, uh," he shuffles his feet against the grass, "I never got to talk to you about what happened after you came back."_

 _I sit down and he sits next to me._

" _Look, I knew that if you ever came back into her life, I didn't stand a chance," he says, and moves his broken arm so it rests in his lap more comfortably. "I always knew that. I suppose what I didn't know…" he takes a breath, "I didn't know that I didn't stand a chance from the get go."_

" _You may be judging yourself harshly," I look at him, "and I hope that you know that I am truly sorry," less because I believe this was my fault, and more because I feel for him, I sympathise._

 _We sit quietly for a moment._

" _She and I fizzled out long before you came back," he said. "I was hoping we will find some way to spark it up again, but then you came back and I knew there was no point. I gave her up. I gave her up and didn't let go," he looks down, hurt. "I gave her up and didn't let go for six years and that's on me."_

 _I am wondering what I should to say to him. "I think this might be a conversation you need to have with her."_

" _There are times, you know, that I wake up in the morning thinking how big an idiot I am for letting her go," he says and looks straight into me._

 _I cannot believe his candour, how easily he speaks of his emotions, how he wears his heart on his sleeve. It is disarmingly charming. I might be falling in love with him a little bit._

" _So I couldn't tell I got whammied because it started out feeling like one of those days. Like," he pouts and drops his tone "'Pete is having another droopy day when he misses Myka'," he changes his tone again, "and then it's all just a blur."_

 _That is another feeling with which I truly sympathise. "I still think this is a conversation to be had with Myka."_

" _I will talk to her. I just want to start, uhm, making amends, clearing the air, turning over a new leaf."_

" _Tabula rasa," I look at him and smile._

 _He looks at me quizzically._

" _Clean slate," I translate._

 _He nods emphatically, "Is my tabula rasa-ed, then?" he asks._

 _I chuckle at his abuse of the term. "It is, indeed," I pause for a moment. "Is mine?"_

 _He wraps his arm around my shoulder. "Sure thing, HG. Sure thing."_

 _The team is unable to determine what released the cape's effects, as there is no evidence of Pete – or anyone – touching it. It appears to have remained untouched and undisturbed since before Agent Lattimer's arrival at the Warehouse._

 _In the dossier we put together about the cape, we list its effects: possessive bouts towards objects of unrequited love; increased emotional instability; projection and manifestation of blame towards said object; physical expression of pent up emotions, possibly presented as attempts to incapacitate or disable said object._

 _The cape is placed in the ovoid quarantine with a special set of sensors Claudia designs._

 _Myka takes seven months to regain her full strength, but it transpires she sustained permanent damage to her right inner ear and her optic nerve. The Secret Service deems her no longer fit for active duty and she is released from service._

 _Irene confides with the Regents and retains Myka at the Warehouse under an agreement that allows her remain a Warehouse Agent, without an association to a specific government agency._

 _Pete does not approach Myka until after she is fully recovered and has regained some stability at work. They go through a terribly awkward phase in their friendship following this incident, understandably, as parts of their untold history is ruffled through._

We are sitting in a waiting room now, similarly to then, but oh so differently: it's only Myka and myself, Pete is the one in surgery. I'm the doting husband, the helpful friend, the collected supervisor. Myka is the battered warrior in shock: her face is streaked with mud and blood, she has a gash on her forehead, and another one on her left cheek. One bruise is now visible along her right jawline and another is forming above her right brow, complimenting a bloodshot eye. The front of her shirt is stained with blood, her trousers are too.

She is extremely lucky. Other than the superficial injuries to her face and arms – minor cuts and bruises caused by debris and the shrubs she landed in – she is fine. The blood she is stained with is Pete's.

Two hours from when we arrive at the hospital, the first doctor emerges from surgery to say it is likely to be a long procedure. He suggests that we avail ourselves, but remain close by and make ourselves comfortable for the night.

Myka is holding back tears, wiping the few that escape with the back of her hand and on her muddy sleeve. She can't keep still, her shock isn't stiff like mine. She seeks to release the pressure within, whereas mine paralysed me. "I need to take a walk," she states, grabs her blood-stained jacket and walks out of the waiting room.

In her hurry, she forgets her phone and Farnsworth on the table and I collect them. I email Claudia an update and she informs me they are due to land in three hours, and should be at the hospital in five.

Forty five minutes after Myka leaves, I go after her. I walk out of the sliding doors to A&E to find her crouched on the sidewalk opposite, her back against a stone wall, knees bent to her chest, head slumped between them.

The air has a distinct chill in it, an early morning breeze is picking up, a tell-tale sign that the sun will be up soon. I tuck my hands in my pockets, straighten my shoulders and take in full lungs' worth of air. Myka looks up and notices me.

Of all the things that could be running through me – right here, right now – I am feeling grateful and lucky. It is selfish, I know. But I cannot help it.

/ /

I look up and I see Helena on the other side of the road. She's standing tall, her hair shifts in the light breeze. She's looking up at the sky, probably calculating the number of minutes till sunrise.

I'm trying to understand what I'm feeling right now, but I can't. It's not even like there's a mess of stuff to sort through, it's the opposite. It's like there's nothing to feel.

The only thing I _do_ feel is how heavy it is to breathe. Heavy and hard and repetitive. In and out. And in. And out.

She walks down the short flight of stairs that lead away from the ambulance ramp and crosses the road. She reaches my side and leans against the stone wall behind me. I can't see her anymore, she's outside my peripheral vision. My head slumps between my knees again.

Helena reaches her hand to me, lets it hang above the back of my neck, fingertips grazing against it. I know I should be feeling them, but I'm not.

"Darling, you must be freezing," she says.

I sniff and sigh heavily. "I can't feel anything," my voice is hoarse and rough. I brace my knees with my hands so I can lean my chin on them. Helena's hand travels up, to touch hair at the nape of my neck. It feels like she is touching a part of me that isn't mine.

"Will you come in?"

I shake my head. "I can't stand hospital waiting rooms," I sniff again.

Her touch firms slightly, I can feel the whole of her palm against the back of my neck now. She is drawing small circles, comforting me. "Can I get you anything?" she asks.

I look up at her. I feel defeated. She winces slightly, either at my wounds or my surrender. I well up and start crying.

She sits herself down, next to me, her hand stretching over my shoulder to pull me to her. It's even harder to breathe now that I'm crying.

I cry for what feels like hours. My eyes and mouth and face just hurt. I cry until I don't know what I'm crying about anymore. But she doesn't let go. She just holds me. After a while, the crying subsides and I breathe – heavily, still whimpering against her. She still doesn't let go.

I unfold my hands from my knees and reach for her, wrapping my arms around her neck and shoulders, holding her tightly. I lift my head up and she greets my bruised temple with a gentle kiss. I well up again.

I can't stop crying again, but I want to – I want to stop so badly. It hurts so much to cry, I can't take the pain for much longer.

Helena cradles my head in her palm. She brushes her fingers against the scar above my ear, where Pete struck me with the butt of his side arm nearly four years ago, and leans forward to press her lips to it. I tighten my hold and she tightens hers.

She pushes herself upwards, forcing me to rise with her. The sky above the hospital is turning a pale blue. She adjusts her hands around me and drags me across the road, back into to the hospital, back to the waiting room. She sits me down and rummages in her pockets for a pack of tissues. She then walks to the far corner of the room, to the water dispenser, and gets three cups full.

She hands me one and places the other two on the small table in front of us. She takes out one tissue, unfolds it and re-folds it diagonally, then dips its corner in one of the cups. She reaches for my chin with her left hand, turning my face to her, and ever so gently starts cleaning it.

She starts around my eyes, which I can only guess are red and puffed. Her touch and chill of the water ease the stinging. After my eyes, she cleans my scrapes on my forehead and cheek. She then uses her last tissue to rub off the last of the dried mud, blood and tears from my face and neck.

When she finishes, she inspects her work and smiles to herself at first, but then she searches my eyes and her smile deepens with affection. I can't help but smile back.

"Drink up," she says, pointing at the cup of water I've held for the past thirty minutes.

I do as she tells me. I can feel the water travelling down as I swallow.

She heads to the dispenser to get more and a Doctor enters the room. I get up and walk towards him, nervously.

"Are you the family?" he asks.

Helena turns around and joins me.

"Yeah," I say. "We're family."

"The damage was severe. He suffered extreme trauma," I guess that's how doctors try to cushion a blow. "We managed to reattach the limbs," he says and I well up again, "and stop the internal bleeding from the sheer force of the explosion," I understand the words, but they don't make sense.

"So what's the prognosis?" I clear my throat and ask, matter-of-factly, afraid I will start crying again.

"We believe he will live through this," the doctor says, "but we can't tell whether he regain full use of his leg."

Helena places her hand on my back and I exhale what feels like a breath I've been holding on to for the past seven hours.

"Is he out of surgery? When can we see him?" I ask.

"They are finishing up now. You should be able to see him once they put him in the intensive care unit within the hour. I'll ask a nurse to show you."

I smile and cry at the same time. I don't know if I had ever felt so relieved.

The doctor turns to leave the room, but comes back in. "Which one of you tended to his wounds in the field?"

I am not really listening, still in a world of relief, where Pete is still alive. So I simply nod at him.

"Dare I say you saved his life," he squeezes my shoulder with a reaffirming nod.

I continue standing there for another moment, until my Farnsworth goes off and Helena's phone rings. She walks away to answer it, I crack the Farnsworth open, it's Claudia.

"What's going on?" she asks.

"Pete's alive," I say and push some tears back, "he's alive."

"Lucky son of a biscuit," she says. "You and H?"

"We're okay. Where are you guys?"

"We just landed in Heathrow, Jinksy is getting a car. We should be there in a couple of hours."

"Thanks for –" I don't have a chance to finish.

"Wait, Myka, someone here wants to…" she says and hands the Farnsworth over.

Jane Lattimer looks at me from the round screen, and I can't hold the tears back anymore. "Jane," I say quietly, "they say he'll be okay."

"Is there anything I need to know before I get there?" she asks, her voice tired and frayed.

I shake my head, "We should be able to see him in an hour. I'll let you know as soon as we know."

She's welling up too. "Thank you, Myka," she says and closes the call.

Helena walks over to me and we sit back down.

"Was Steve okay?" I ask her.

"He is. He wanted coordinates for the hospital and the substation, then said they should be here in a few hours, traffic willing," she gives me the gist of the conversation with Steve. She is looking at me as though she wants to ask something but doesn't dare.

"How are you?" She musters, eventually, after a few moments of silence.

"I think I'm better now, knowing he'll make it." I say, "What about you?"

She sighs heavily. "This brought back many memories. Many of which are not particularly pleasant."

"The incident?" I confirm with her.

She nods. "I cannot help but feel so incredibly lucky, Myka," she's the one who wells up now. "Lucky and grateful," she pauses for a minute, "and very, very selfish."

Me too, I think. Or say. I'm not sure which, but I feel it. I _feel_.


	4. Chapter 4: Protocol (part 1)

**A/N:** after some feedback and because this is the longest of the chapters, I've split it up into two. As always - your thoughts are so so welcome!

The following weeks surpass our wildest anticipations with their intensity. The explosion that was not an explosion carried enough cause for our hosts in Britain to place their involvement with the Warehouse under consideration. After a few tense weeks, the substation was allowed to remain operational, but with the presence and input of a military adjunct troop of ten soldiers and two officers, monitoring activity and guarding the perimeter at all times.

The experiment was postponed. Even once the substation was re-granted permission to operate, authorities refused to budge on the matter, and it appeared as though an indefinite embargo was placed on the gateway's activity.

It is Myka's tireless work that puts the experiment back on track, culminating in a successful opening of the gateway at the end of April. Since then, the gateway to Warehouse 13 is opened fortnightly to pass both soft and hard cargo, Claudia's code for data and artefacts.

Pete spends nearly two months in hospital. Myka lets a small bungalow for him in Shrewsbury, so he can remain close to medical assistance and within fairly easy reach of us. Jane has been with him the whole time, but as the weeks pass by, it becomes clear that taking care of Pete is hard work for her. So Myka spends two days every week with him and at least one night.

In her absence, Karl and So share commanding responsibilities and I contribute as needed or necessary.

All the while we are investigating what actually happened that night.

Our investigation starts on a rather awkward footing. The crate outside substation's main gate turns out to be empty bar a piece of rope. It doesn't take us long to determine that the rope is not an artefact, nor is it the cause of the non-explosion. The theory proposed, therefore, is that the rope is a proxy for an artefact.

It is an odd and somewhat uncomfortable moment during a team meeting, when we postulate the possibility that an artefact could be activated via the use of proxied, non-imbued objects. As the team was considering the meaning of this, I could practically _taste_ the world of mayhem at the tips of the fingers of the person capable of doing this.

Assuming a proxied activation is – indeed – the cause, we must assume that the empowering artefact is one we may not only be aware of, but possibly one in our possession. A relatively quick combination of queries on the Warehouse's databases yields a brilliant potential: the Whip of Gilgamesh. It is one of the first artefacts to have ever been captured and catalogued. A snake-like whip that cracks a mass of air, pushing it directionally at enormous speeds, just like an explosion would – but without fire.

As expected, the whip is secure in the Warehouse. The breach Artie detected just before the whip exploded was not its removal or even activation. It was something else entirely, something that creates a unique signature on our sensors, one we have never seen before. We assume it is the _displacement_ of the activation energy.

Once we establish the time, location and artefact in question, we search for means of activation, searching and collecting evidence that will prove or disprove our proxy theory. A thorough search and re-search, view and review of Warehouse data and systems yields no person or thing who has come within reach of the whip. No entity, human or otherwise, has approached the area in the Warehouse where the whip is stored in over three decades.

With little evidence to refute it, our proxied/remote activation hypothesis becomes a working theory, at least until something or someone proves us otherwise.

By early June Arthur launches a gargantuan research effort to learn about what could possibly trigger remote activation and tags Myka to join him. Days she spends in Shrewsbury with Pete, she spends studying, reading and analysing information she, Arthur and the South Dakota team uncover. Pete grows stronger every day and we begin to contemplate sending him back to the US to complete his recovery.

By July, the gateway is opened weekly. Claudia and So develop a protocol for the passage of living organic matter through the gateway, and the soft and hard cargo is joined by "squishy". We start small, with lichen, plant matter, single cell organisms and bacteria. We progress to small yet complex organisms, working our way through biological taxonomies. As we graduate into small mammals, Pete the Third, a relation of our legendary ferret, is our first frequent flyer, and is volunteered to be the test subject for frequent gateway passage between the substation and the Warehouse.

At the end of August we are ready to have a human-sized test subject and Pete – quite heroically – volunteers to be the first human to travel via gateway. The amount of work we put into this experiment is staggering, emotions riding exceptionally high. Jane flies back to the US to greet him on the other side.

He passes through the gateway almost five months to the day since he landed in the UK for the E Day, back in March, and arrives in South Dakota safe and sound. There are 72 nervous hours while we wait for Vanessa's team to check him, to make sure Pete is exactly as he should be.

When Arthur and Pete call us with the good news on an unusually hot August afternoon, there is a true sense of victory among the team. Myka surprises us with introducing a new "On Leave" protocol for the August Bank Holiday weekend, so that everyone can get a well-earned rest. Later that day, she surprises me with a long weekend in Norway.

It feels like it has been a long while since she and I could enjoy each other's company this way, remote from the world but close to one another, adventurous and indulgent, time spent equally outdoors and in. We come back on the Tuesday refreshed: I'm negotiating contracts with two new clients and Myka is debriefing all and sundry about the successes the gateway, substation and Warehouse have accrued.

The following week we are both needed in London, so we arrange for our trips to overlap. We get to spend two nights together in a hotel in Mayfair, which feels familiar but new to times past when we had arranged to meet in hotels. We revisit topics of conversations from our time away in Bath, namely my fears that the consultancy practice will pale in comparison to the shimmering excitement of the substation. I am glad to share with Myka that my fears are proven overly cautious suppositions as I find I rather like engaging with the humdrum of corporate drama. Working through the detail of places of business is a sobering relief; a bit like drinking a pint of water before going to bed at the end of a raucous night out.

Work aside, she and I delight in the notion that we can have more time together and make the most of our nights in a different setting.

As the Wednesday draws to a close, she bids me a temporary farewell on the platform at Euston Station. We are sitting on a bench at the station, my head resting on her shoulder, her cheek resting against the top of my head.

"What have you got planned for the ride home?" She asks.

I am contemplating my options: there is, of course, work. Either my practice or substation reports to catch up on. I have two new books on my tablet. I also have a Netflix queue Claudia has been faithfully and infinitely building for me at an alarmingly fast pace – one I cannot possibly catch up with. "A little bit of everything, I reckon".

She hums through a contented smile, brushing her cheek against me. "I had a wonderful time with you these past few days," she says as the tannoy announces my train is boarding.

"A methodical break?" I smile up at her, her lips quirk into a grin at my use of her turn of phrase.

"Very methodical," she hums again, this time into a tender kiss at my lips. "Have fun," she whispers. "Don't work too hard."

"Never, darling," I linger against her.

She pulls away eventually. "You really don't want to miss this one, too," she stands up and I stand with her.

"See you Friday," I sigh heavily and collect my bag.

"Can't wait."

I jump on the train and settle at my window seat. I look back at the platform and watch Myka: light coat in one hand, phone in the other. She looks so at ease: a confident stance, back straight, her right shoulder dropped, her long legs slightly apart, clad in fitted grey trousers and almost-knee-high black leather boots. Her head is held high, the sun that filters through the windows illuminates her curls to a warm brown shade. She is looking in my general direction. She knows which carriage I'm in, but cannot see me in it. Even if I did wave excitedly at her, which is completely outside our communicational vernacular, she won't see me as the carriage is considerably darker than the platform.

I cannot tear my eyes off her, regal as she is, so I pick up my phone and text her: 'You look so deliciously beautiful idle. Please remind me to idlise you upon your return.'. I watch her receive it, track the shift in her expression as she reads it. She worries her bottom lip and shifts her weight from one leg to the other while staring at the screen of her phone, then raises her gaze, cheeks slightly flushed, to search for a hint of me on the train.

I cannot help but feel joy at my small victory, having managed to unhinge her ever so slightly. She grins lopsidedly, shakes her head, puts her sunglasses on and walks off the platform.

I spend the long journey much like I had planned. Work first, clearing all must-do items from the docket then catching up on substation matters. We are about to run the first encompassing systems diagnostic for all substation operations, the execution and review of which is my responsibility. It's an interesting thinking exercise for me, considering the complexity that guards and governs the gateway. I spend some time mapping all the different elements and consider how best to undo and redo the beast in fewest, least intrusive steps possible.

After a while, though, my mind wanders to my time with Myka over the past few days, to the image of her on the platform, looking at her phone, her lips quirked into a smile, light blush creeping up her cheeks. Before I realise, work and its unrelenting flow of tasks dissolve and I simply stare out the carriage window, concocting a plan for my weekend with her.

I reach our cottage late in the evening and check in with the team. Mac jests with me, suggesting Myka and I need another outlet for our parenting instinct, possibly by means of a dog: Dickens is obviously too independent for us to lord over and the team is feeling at odds with our projection of our concerns for safety and wellbeing onto them and the substation.

The next day goes by fairly smoothly as the team and I plot out the protocol for the diagnostic. Just as we are breaking for lunch, my phone rings – it's Myka. My expression obviously gives something away, because Mac wiggles her eyebrows at me as she walks by, on her way out. Once the last of them clears the Helm, I answer her call.

"Hello, darling," I say and conjure the image of her on the platform in Euston.

"Hey," her voice is smooth as honey, she is bearing good news.

"How did the meeting go?"

"It went well enough for them to cancel the Q&A session this afternoon."

"Will you be home early, then?" I wonder if my excitement is evident in my voice, an unexpected treasure trove of opportunities opens before me suddenly.

"Consider this your reminder for idlising," she says quietly, I can picture her smile as she says it, the glint in her eye. I imagine how she would look at me if she were standing in front of me right now - and I feel the need to wet my lips.

"What time is your train?" I ask.

What I hear back is her voice. It is most certainly her voice, but I cannot understand what she is saying. She is speaking another language all of a sudden. One I do not understand.

"Myka?"

She speaks to me, her voice is painted with a hint of confusion.

"Myka, I don't understand."

She says something else and finishes with my name. I understand my name.

The conversation ends there, the call disconnected.

And just like that, I miss Myka more than I had ever missed her before.

/ /

I make myself comfortable in my reserved window seat. I probably didn't need to reserve it because it's a lunchtime train and it's fairly empty. It'll stay fairly empty, too. I love empty trains, they're such a great thinking space.

I pick up my phone to call Helena - now is probably a good time to let her know I'll be home early.

"Hello, darling," she answers her phone, trademark.

"Hey," I speak quietly, partly because I'm in a public place (albeit empty) and partly because there is some seduction to be had here.

"How did the meeting go?" her tone suggests she knows what's coming, but she sticks to business as usual.

"It went well enough for them to cancel the Q&A session this afternoon."

"Will you be home early, then?" she sounds exactly the kind of excited I was hoping for.

"Consider this your reminder for idlising," I say quietly, verging on whispering, a small lascivious grin stretches across my lips. She is silent for a second, and I bet it is because she is touching her tongue to her top lip, my suggestion hitting the mark.

Then she says something in a language I don't understand.

"Well, I don't know this language, but I'd love for you to teach me tonight," I say.

"Myka?" she sounds concerned.

Maybe she didn't hear me. Reception on trains is crap at the best of times. "Can you hear me? I should be home at about five. Are you getting this?"

She says my name, and then says something else. It sounds like Hebrew, but isn't.

"This reeks of fudge. I'll get back to you in three minutes, Helena."

I hang up the call and look around me quickly. Not a soul in the carriage, just when I need one. I yank my Farnsworth out and hail the Mothership. Pete answers.

"Hey there, Mob Boss." He greets me happily, chewing on something.

"Hey. Can you understand what I'm saying?" I ask, quickly, sternly, a bit harshly.

"Most of the time. So long as you're not speaking geek, or science. And when you use words with three syllables and less."

I don't have time for this. "Right now, am I speaking English right now?"

He looks bewildered.

"It's not a trick question, Pete, am I speaking English?"

"Yes…?" he is answering and asking at the same time.

"I think we have another artefact kicking up. I was just on the phone to Helena and all of a sudden she was speaking another language."

"Trippy."

"You can say that again."

"I can definitely confirm, Mykes, you are speaking English."

"Is someone else around so we can double check this?" I'm being cautious.

I can see from the background on the Farnsworth screen that Pete stood up and is hobbling.

"You're walking!" I exclaim excitedly.

"I'm on a crutch, but upright," he smiles. "Hey, Abigail," he looks up from the Farnsworth.

I can hear her speaking in the background and then see her next to Pete on the screen. "Hey, Myka. How are you?"

"I'm okay right now, Abigail, thanks, but I have a feeling it's about to go downhill very quickly," I can't help but be honest. "How are you?"

"Keeping busy with the new trainee agents. I don't think I ever appreciated you guys for the fully formed adults that you are," she smiles.

"Even him?" I say and nudge my head towards Pete.

"Is that enough English for you?" Pete stops the banter before it gets too personal.

"Yeah, but I don't know what it means yet. I'm going to try the substation again and I'll let you know what's going on. Give Artie and Claud a Code Yellow, though, okay?"

"Gotcha," he says and we switch off.

I'm thinking through what happened on the phone with Helena: I called her. She picked up – it took her longer to pick up than usual. That may mean something. We spoke for a few minutes, it was fine. What was the last thing I said before she changed languages? Ah, I was propositioning her. I can feel my cheeks heating up at the thought of having to put this down in my report.

I close my eyes, thinking back to how things went: she asked about the meeting, I told her the Q&A is cancelled, she asked if I will be home early, and I… well… answered. I didn't touch anything old or unusual or that I hadn't touched on the train already in the past hour. I can't recall fudge or odd sensations, nothing buzz-y or electric-like. Nothing. I can't recall any sounds from the other side of the line either, until Helena spoke in what sounded like Hebrew, but wasn't. That, coupled with the conversation with Pete and Abigail, it is safe to assume it's her rather than me.

'Safe' may not be the right word here.

I try her on her Farnsworth, in case the problem is with the phones. She picks up instantly. She looks concerned and speaks in the same language she spoke before. At least that hasn't changed. I still can't understand it. I start the recording app on my phone.

I think I'm picking out names throughout her nervous tirade: mine, Mac, Karl, Martin, Arthur, Irene. I don't understand anything else. This is very frustrating. And unnerving.

"Helena, I don't understand. Can you hold on a sec?" I motion at the screen what I think is universal enough for 'wait a second'. I reach for my bag and take out my tablet. I switch it on and scribble on it with my finger "CAN YOU READ ENGLISH?"

She looks intently into the screen, purses her lips and shakes her head.

I sigh deeply thinking about what I can draw that will make sense. I draw two stick figures on either end of the screen, one has a speech bubble with an A, B, C in it; and the other has a speech bubble with the first three letters in the Hebrew alphabet, Alef, Bet, Gimel.

I hold it up to the Farnsworth and point at the Hebrew speaking stick figure and say "Helena". I point at the other one and say "Myka".

She says something which, judging by her tone, body language and facial expression, would probably translate as "Don't you think I bloody well know that already?!"

"I don't know what to say," I look at her, confused and a little bit scared.

Her face falls as well.

We have protocols for this, and the protocol now is lockdown and isolation. I erase my two stick figures from the screen and draw a padlock, then hold it up to the screen.

She looks at it for a moment and shakes her head, my clue is obviously not cutting it.

"Protocol," I say, even though it's pointless, and then hold my fingers up: one, then four. Just for the sake of it, I also write '14' near the padlock on the tablet.

She is walking to the back of the Helm, to our library of technical documentation. Oh, Helena, you're a genius, pick out the emergency protocol folder.

She's looking into the screen again, saying what could be, again, by her tone and facial expression, "which one?"

"Hold it up to the spines, I'll tell you when to stop," I say and do what I want her to do: I flip the Farnsworth around, pointing it at the table I'm sitting next to with my finger in the frame, panning across it. She should see my phone, the tablet, the book I was reading. I pause over the book, say "stop", then tap it.

She nods and turns the Farnsworth to the spines of the folders, scanning them. When she reaches emergency protocols I yell "Stop!"

She pulls it out and opens it on the table. She then holds the Farnsworth similarly to before, scanning the tabs along the length of the folder. I stop her at fourteen – emergency lockdown due to artefact contamination.

She places the Farnsworth flat on the table, and all I can see is the Helm's ceiling. I'm working through the contents of the protocol in my head. There is a lot of written process, a few of technical drawings, some pictorial guides. Not many. I can only hope that'll be enough.

I can hear her flipping through pages, grumbling to herself in her language. I take a deep breath and start drawing seven stick figures on the tablet. I need to check in with the team, see whether or not they are affected.

She picks the Farnsworth up, and I am relieved and nervous to see her face – she nods at me, her face calm and composed. She says something and nods again.

I nod in return.

I then hold up the tablet to the screen and point at one of the figures. "Mac," I say.

She nods.

"Myka," I point at myself, "Talk to" I gesture with my hand what I think is universal enough for talk, "Mac".

She nods.

"Then," I say, "Myka talk to" repeat the same gesture "Karl".

She nods and says "Martin," and then two more words I don't understand.

I shake my head at her, and she repeats the words. While pointing towards where my tablet is.

It takes me a second to realise that 'So' and 'Jade' are _actual_ _words_ so when she speaks them, they come out in her Hebrew-but-not.

"Yes," I say and nod emphatically.

We look at each other for a moment, silent. I don't want to close the call, but I have to. "I'll talk to you after," I make up hand gestures as I speak.

She nods one last time and closes the Farnsworth.

I prompt the tablet up and initiate a secure connection to the substation. I open the locator, hoping maybe a couple of them are wearing their HGs. Jade and Karl are in the break room and I hope So, Martin and Mac are close by.

I check my phone is still recording and I hail Karl on his HG. He answers and my heart sinks. He isn't speaking English. He isn't speaking Swiss, French or German either. He is speaking something that sounds a bit like Arabic, but _isn't_.

It doesn't take _me_ to notice a pattern.

It's pointless trying to talk to him without having a video feed, so I hang up and page Mac's Farnsworth. When she answers it, I can almost understand some of what she is saying, because it's a bit like Greek, but _not_. It's more rudimentary. Ancient Greek, maybe? She says something else, I can make out words that sounds like "polla" (many) and "glossos" (languages).

I nod at her, long and slow. That downhill of how I'm doing, the one I mentioned to Abigail, just turned into a base jump. And I'm not sure I have a parachute.

"Can you get everyone to say something?" I say without thinking, then pause. "Karl talk? Meelo?" I ask, gesturing 'talk' with my hand.

She walks over to Karl and holds the Farnsworth up to him. He says something. It is an Arabic but _not_ , and – like what Helena is speaking – it isn't a language I know.

"Jade?" I say, and he shakes his head. "Martin?" The Farnsworth is passed to Martin, who says something in a _different_ language, not one used so far and not one I know either; he then passes the Farnsworth to So, who speaks yet another language, then Jade. Then the Farnsworth goes back to Mac, who repeats what she said earlier, only now it makes perfect sense. They are all speaking different languages. Many different languages.

Most of them sounds sematic. Most of them sound _not_ modern. I remember there's an Old Testament story that goes like this, and I get a bad, _bad_ feeling.

I flip the drawing on my tablet back to the lock with '14' on it, add and iota and delta underneath and then 'XIV' under that - even though they are Roman numerals, not Greek. I hold it up to the Farnsworth. She looks at me questioningly to begin with. Then her expression changes, like the penny dropped, and she smiles and nods.

"Helena," I say.

"Mesa," Mac answers. I know that one – 'inside'.

"I know," I nod. "Find Helena. Vrisko Helena," I use the military gesture for 'look', maybe that'll help.

She nods and closes her Farnsworth.

I stop the recording and call the commanding officer of the adjunct force.

"Yes?"

"Hi, this is Bering from the substation," I keep my voice level.

"How can I help you, Bering?"

"I'm on my way back from London and I think something happened at the substation. Are any of your guys inside?"

"No, ma'am," he answers.

"Have any of them been inside today? Or have been in contact with my guys?"

"No, ma'am."

"In the past forty eight hours?"

"No."

"Good. My team is initiating lockdown protocol, so please make sure none of your guys goes in. Secure the perimeter and do not come into physical contact with any of them."

"Firing instructions, ma'am?"

I take a deep breath. Six lives are placed in my hands, twelve others are placed in my hands by proxy. "Stun, injure." I can only hope that everyone follows their protocols, that no one panics or does something stupid.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Please keep me informed if anything happens. Your team or mine. Anything at all."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thanks." I say and hang up.

I hail Artie.

"What?" he answers in his own courteous way.

"Can you run a check on aisle Barstow six for me please?"

"Why?"

"Because I think we have a Tower of Babel situation here."

He goes silent for a moment, while running checks on the Warehouse's systems. "Tower of Babel," he mumbles to himself. "We have a stone."

"We have a few," I correct him.

He angles a look at me. "What makes you think it's a Babel stone?"

"As of," I check my watch, "eight minutes ago each member of the substation team has been speaking a completely different language."

"Why Babel and not any other mayhem inducing artefact?"

"Because all the languages sound old. And sematic. Or Greek. Ancient Greek."

"Claudia!" he shouts across his office.

She appears behind him. "Hey Myka, how was London?"

"London was good," I say, "but I'm calling about something else."

"She thinks the Babel stones have been messed with," Artie fills her in. "Can you run your scans to find out?"

"On it," she says and disappears.

"Where are you?" he asks.

"I'm on the train back to Wales."

"How long till you get there?"

"Another three hours."

"And the substation?"

"I hope they are initiating lockdown."

"Hope?" he grunts.

"It's hard to be sure when you don't understand them and they don't understand you."

"Why don't you make sure?"

"I will, as soon as we are finished here."

"We are finished here."

"I'll send you soundbites of them speaking."

He switches off the Farnsworth, and I hail Helena, who – again – answers immediately.

"Hey," I'm relieved to see her, but the situation catches up with me very quickly and it hurts at the same time. Even though she and I _can_ communicate without words, language is a big part of our being together.

She speaks back to me. Her tone is hushed, she is worried. She says something else and points at her head – she is wearing an HG, and continues talking while turning the Farnsworth around, showing me the rest of the team is with her, in the quarantine room of the infirmary, all donning their HGs.

She then turns the Farnsworth to Mac, who starts talking at me while holding up the emergency protocol folder and pointing out to different stages of the protocol. She finishes with a thumb up and a big smile.

Thumbs up seem to still be working. It may be small and inconsequential, but it's a relief to know we have _some_ common language to work with.

"Great," I say. "Thank you." I sign the word thank you as I speak it – straight hand, pads of my fingers touching my chin then pushed outwards - and she nods. Maybe more universal language managed to not be overridden by this artefact.

She hands the Farnsworth back to Helena and she and I just look at each other. I am not shutting the Farnsworth off because I can't bring myself to. I want to reassure her, distract her, piss her off, make her laugh, but there is no point. She won't understand me.

Nobody is saying anything.

"I just need to do some stuff, but I'll stay on the line," I say, and she shrugs at me.

I prop the Farnsworth against my book and start working on the soundbites. It's difficult to do on the tablet, but I manage to create a short clip of each team member speaking and send them over to the Warehouse.

I get a reply within a minute from Claudia saying that no anomalies were detected in Barstow six. The Babel stones were not disturbed.

I look at the Farnsworth to see that Helena followed suit and prompted her Farnsworth on one of the shelves above the bed she and Mac are sitting on. The team is looking nervous and bored.

I have no idea what to do now. If I were there, there would be things I could do, but I'm two and a half hours away, on a train. I can't speed up, I can't get off. I'm stuck. Just like them.

I get another email, from Artie this time. All it says is "You were right."

I pick up the Farnsworth and look into the round screen at them. "Hey guys. I have Artie on the other line. I'll be right back," and I switch it off.

It blares the second I do, Artie and Claudia on the other side.

"It's hard to be 100% certain from what you've sent, because many ancient languages were only preserved in written form, so we don't actually know what they sounded like," Artie goes straight to the point. "I can verify that Helena is speaking Aramaic, Mac is speaking the root language of Greek, and So is speaking Sumerian."

"So can we talk back to them?" I ask. "I mean, there is extensive knowledge of Aramaic. A huge body of work that people read out loud. Can't we get a translator?"

"I can speak enough Aramaic to say that the language Helena is speaking is different than the version we know today," he says.

"What about Mac? I can make out words sometimes."

" _You_ would," Artie motions towards me, "but, similarly to Aramaic and Sumerian, what we know of Ancient Greek is a distant cousin of what Mac is speaking. What we know is a distorted version of the language, after it was passed down the generations, for thousands of years." He is silent for a second, letting me process what he had just said. "We may be able to write, but not speak."

I sigh heavily. Even if we did want to write in order to communicate, we would need to write everything is six different languages.

"I'm afraid there's more bad news," Claudia says. "The fact the Warehouse sensors haven't picked _anything_ up was a little troubling," she continues. "So I ran some extra tests and I managed to amplify the signals from the sensors in Barstow, and lo and behold..." She holds up a tablet to the Farnsworth, with a tiniest set of sine waves drawn across the screen, different pitches, but a distinct sequence. "…a needle emerges from the haystack. Looks familiar?"

I recognise it. "That's the pattern of displacing activation energy, like the one we recorded when the Gilgamesh whip was activated."

"Douze points to the fledgling European," she nods triumphantly. "Which also suggests that coincidence, thy true name is conspiracy."

"Why conspiracy?" Artie asks.

"We have two ancient world artefacts that were triggered remotely," I say.

"And," Claudia adds, "the second displacement was completely Trojaned. It was toned down to make it undetectable. If I didn't know to look for it, we would have never found it. Someone not only knew that we could detect displacements, but also _how_ we detect them."

"Inside job?" I hasten to ask.

"As much as I hate to consider it," she nods with a heavy sigh.

My mind goes blank, it's like I forget how to speak. So many thoughts and images are passing so fast through my mind, I can barely hold on to any of them long enough to understand why: MacPherson leaning in to kiss me by the Escher vault, Helena holding a gun to my head in Yellowstone, Jimmy's look when I was reaching for the barometer, Claudia's face after realising who Nick is, Pete's maddened look at Sedona South Nineteen, and more. So many more.

Then I flick through all the first instances I had met every single person who is involved with the substation. And then the Warehouse. At then the Secret Service. Then the second instances, like my brain is running an insane search to find out who the insider can be.

"Hey, Myka," Claudia pulls me back. "You okay there?"

"Yeah," I answer, distracted. "Yeah, I'm just thinking."

"What do you say, Artie? What do we do with all this?" she turns to him.

"We will look into the insider," he says decisively. "You should keep a handle on things over there."

"Should we try to neutralise it?" Claudia asks between the two of us.

"Wait till I get there," I say. "I need to be there for that."

I spend the next two hours researching furiously, using Warehouse resources and contacts I made over the years in universities across the world. By the time I arrive in Welshpool, I have collected what I believe is pretty much all there is to know about ancient languages from 2500BC through to 1000BC. Written samples, glossaries, histories. I also lined up an archaeologist, two historians, a theologist and a rabbi. Just in case. It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, only no one knows just _how_ bad it could turn out to be.

I get off the train – finally – and drive to the substation, breaking pretty much every road rule there is, British, European or American. I drive past the village and our cottage and stop at the main gate to realise I shouldn't be going anywhere near the place without a HazMat suit. Damn protocol. I swear explicitly and non-stop for the next 10 minutes as I drive back to the cottage to find a suit.

These suits are the most uncomfortable pieces of equipment I ever had to deal with, and putting one on my own and in a hurry is not easy, to say the least. I manage to zip myself in, check it's sealed, grab Helena's suit as a spare, run back to the Rover and head back to the substation.

Lockdown protocol means that I can't go all the way in, even in a HazMat, but there is a kind of airlock past the security checkpoints just before entering the Helm. I can get _there_ and check in with them from there.

I get out of the car and get sealed in the suit: check the seams, switch on the filters, put the helmet on and do a final seal check. I'm now completely cut off from my environment and uncomfortable beyond belief. I grab my tablet and a stylus.

Running in these things is out of the question, so I walk, as fast as I can past the security checkpoints. The airlock is sealed – that's a sign the guys managed to understand that part of the protocol. I key in the codes from my side and watch the decontamination sequence run: first the air pressure drops (the air from the room gets sucked out), then it slowly creeps back up (the room is pumped with air from the safety cylinders) and then a repurposed drip irrigation system pumps purple goo onto the walls, the ceiling, the floor. The room looks like Barney the Purple Dinosaur exploded in it. Nothing reacts with the goo. The stone or its proxy are not in the airlock.

When decontamination finishes, the hatch opens on my end. I walk in, and it closes behind me.

I feel a kind relief now that I'm here, but it's tentative. I walk to the far corner of the room and unlock a terminal, log in and queue up the intercom system. I switch to the video and audio feeds from the infirmary. The video feed launches first and I can see they are all there.

I exhale a laugh because they look like _usual_ , normal and okay and playing cards. They look engrossed, chatting, excited. But then the audio switches on, and it takes me a few seconds to realise that although they are completely absorbed in the game, they are still speaking six extinct sematic languages.

Faster than I can imagine, tentative relief is replaced with exhaustion and fear and a sense of failure. I'm standing in front of the terminal, frozen for a moment, contemplating my next move.

I ping Claudia at the Warehouse through the terminal.

"Greetings, Spaceman," she answers.

"Greetings," I smile wearily at her. "Are we ready to neutralise the stones?"

"We're almost ready here. What about your end?"

I sigh deeply. "I want to try and tell them, but I have no idea how to."

"Yeah, I've been thinking we need to create more instructional videos for everything in case something like this ever happens again."

"Good thinking, Claud. I'll put that on my to do list," I smile back at her. "How long till you're ready?"

"Uhm…" she looks over her shoulder, "Maybe five minutes?"

"Okay," I'm starting to piece together how I want to explain what's going on to the team, "I'll try to talk to them first."

"We'll be waiting for your signal, BatGirl."

"Thanks..."

I leave the connection with Claudia on, flip over to the intercom system and switch on the two way audio/video feed with the infirmary.

"Hey guys," I wave at them.

They all turn around, each saying something. I manage to catch my name from most of them at some point.

"So…" I start, "Uhm…" I had it in my head a minute ago, but now I'm not sure where I'm going with this. "We think we found the artefact," I say and open a folder on my tablet that has a variety of documents about the Tower of Babel in ancient languages. I hold the tab up to the camera and flick through them slowly enough in the hope some of them will recognise their language on some of the documents and pictures. "We think you are affected by Babel stones. They are the last remaining stone-mason pieces from the Tower of Babel. They cause chaos in groups by making them unable to understand each other. We think you are each speaking a different ancient sematic language, except for Mac, we think Mac is speaking ancient Greek."

I pull the tablet back and look at them. They are looking intently at the screen, Jade and Mac are nodding emphatically. They may have understood.

"Mac?" I call her name. She straightens and raises her hand. "Yes?" I nod sharply at the screen, holding a thumb up.

She nods emphatically back and holds a thumb up.

"Jade?" I repeat the same motion with him.

He nods and holds two thumbs up.

So and Martin also understand. Helena holds her thumb sideways and Karl shakes his head.

Four and a half out of six is not bad. Now for part two. I take a deep breath and exhale. "The stones are at the Warehouse," I hold up an image of the Warehouse. "Claudia will be trying to neutralise them in a minute." I find a picture of Claud, then a picture of the Gooery.

"Yes?" I ask and hold a thumb up.

I get a round of thumbs up from everyone.

"Hang in there. Let's hope this will all be over in a few minutes." I speak quietly, reassuring myself more than them.

I bring Claudia back online. "Okay. Go for it."

"Is the Bat signal up?" she asks.

"Yeah. Do it."

She disappears from the screen, and I bring the infirmary feed up. I'm watching all of them, but keep going back to Helena. I keep thinking there should be things I'd want to say to her if she could understand me, but nothing comes. Maybe it's because of how we are with each other. We don't leave things unsaid, so I have nothing to confess to her that she doesn't already know.

I just miss her. The knowledge I _can't_ talk to her is the issue.

I'm shaken back to the here and now by Claudia calling out my name.

"Yeah," I answer.

"Tis done. Any change?"

I look at the feed again, they are there, but nothing has changed. No one has moved, Martin and Jade are playing another game and talking at each other in their dead languages. I refresh the feed. No change. "Hey guys," I wave at them, "ground control to Major Tom mean anything to anyone?"

I get a round of shrugs and blank looks. No change.

I flip back to Claud. "No change."

"Huh," she scoffs. "Nothing?"

"Doesn't look it."

"Huh," she scoffs again. She turns to speak to someone off screen. She returns a few seconds later. "So Steve here just reminded me of something," she says.

"What?"

"I don't know if it's connected so this may be nothing, okay?"

"What?" I repeat.

"So… you know when we were trying to sort out the artefact that affected Pete that time?"

"Which time?" There were so many.

"That time he went psycho…" she is trying to be gentle, but there were so many.

"Which time?"

"That time he hurt you," she finishes quietly.

"Okay. What about it?"

"We got the Apollo cape and dunked it in goo, and it changed nothing."

I'm processing what Claudia has just said, my mind backtracks through the details in the reports I read about the incident. "Wait a minute..." something gets connected somewhere, "wasn't that a remote activation as well?"

Her jaw drops and she looks to her left, Steve is walking into the frame.

"We didn't know artefacts could be remotely activated then," he adds.

"Holy conspiracy," she exclaims, "are you saying what I think you're saying?"

I'm not sure who she's talking to.

"But this was ages ago, wasn't it?" Claudia confirms.

"Four years," I say.

"Okay... Give me a minute," she looks determined and walks off.

"Are you okay, Myka?" Steve asks.

"Ask me that when this is all over," I say, no point in lying to him.

"How are you holding up, then?" he adapts his question.

"By the book," I reply. If it weren't for protocols, I honestly don't know how I'd be.

Claudia comes back, holding three hefty folders. "This is the kind of research we were all into when you were at the hospital four years ago," she holds the folders up. "We need to go into research mode to figure this out."

"We who?" I ask.

"Dealer's choice," she says. "But I thought the three of us can hack it."

"Okay," I agree.

"What do you prefer? Video footage, sensor data or historical references?" she holds up one folder at the time.

"I'll take history," they are all pretty difficult, so I pick the one I know best.

"Excellent choice. Steve-O, we have our work cut out for us," she hands him two folders, then looks back at me. "Call us when you get settled, I'll start sending you search results," and she signs off.

I spend a few moments collecting my thoughts, sorting them between what's happening now and what happened four years ago. The more I think through this, the odder it gets: how long have remote activations been happening for? Why does it only happen with ancient world artefacts? How come good, old fashioned neutralising doesn't do the trick? And the questions keep on coming, until one sticks and doesn't move: what do I want to tell the team and how do I want to say it?

I switch the two way feed on.

"Hey," I say and they all look up at me.

"Karl, can you understand what I'm saying to you right now?" I ask.

He gives a thumb down.

"Mac, I never got the hang of Cricket and I lied to you last week when I said it was fun?" I intone my comment as a question on purpose.

She gives me a thumb down.

"Helena," I call her name, my heart pounds at the thought of her.

She looks up.

"I miss you," I say.

She shakes her head.

More importantly, none of the others react. Had they been able to understand what I just said, I know for a fact they will have reacted in some way to such an explicit display of affection; but there is nothing across the room.

"Okay," I reach for the tablet, bring the Gooery picture back on, and draw a thick, red 'X' over it. "Neutralising didn't work," I say and point my thumb down. They all nod tiredly. "I," I point emphatically at myself, "am going to do some research about this," I search for a picture of books online and hold that up. "You guys," I point into the camera, then search for a picture of astronaut food, "need to have dinner," I hold that up to the camera.

Martin walks to the locker at the far end of the room and brings out small cardboard boxes, one for each of them. "Thanks, Martin," I gesture. "Talk soon," I have a gesture for talking, I have nothing for soon.

I wave to them, they wave back, I switch the feed off.

I stand there for a moment, deflated. I feel about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

Snap out of it, Bering, I psych myself; go home, get a cup of coffee and get at what you are good at.

I leave the airlock, and take my helmet off when two of the soldiers on patrol clock me and point their weapons at me.

"Stop!" they yell.

I freeze, hold both my hands up. "I'm Bering," I say. "I'm not affected."

"Let me verify that," one of them says, walks back a few paces and goes on his radio. I can hear the officer I spoke to earlier talking to him, asking him to describe what I look like. He joins the other soldier, "You can get through," he says.

"No one else goes out," I order them.

The one who verified who I was salutes me.

"As you were," I salute back, get in the Rover and go home.

I walk into the cottage, place the HazMat helmet by the door, unzip the suit and pull my hands out of the thick gloved sleeves. It falls straight off me, pools at my feet and I step out of it. I stand in the foyer for a moment, taking in the silence. A roaring silence. Trite, but true.

I'm still standing there when Dickens greets me, rubbing himself against my shin. Suddenly, missing Helena feels like phantom pain, like I'm missing a limb. I am missing her being here, missing her voice and the look in her eyes. Her cockiness and vulnerability and world of contradictions that she is.

I'm missing her as if she is gone, because as much as I hate to even consider it, she may be. It's hard for me to even think it, but I'm not allowed to make assumptions or give discounts just because it's Helena and I happen to believe she's a great person. If there's an inside element – everyone's a suspect. That's how it works. No one is allowed to make assumptions. If we're is investigating insiders, Helena will be on the list.

"Coffee," I mutter to shake myself out of the thought.

Dickens meows.

"And dinner," I acknowledge him.

I walk into the kitchen, put the kettle on for my coffee and dish up a sachet of wet food for the cat. My mind is blank, all that goes through it are the noises in the cottage, our cottage: the kettle coming to the boil and switching off, Dickens munching on his dinner, the soft closing of the kitchen cabinet door, the unscrewing of the coffee jar's lid, the scraping of the teaspoon inside it, the soft rattle-come-hiss of the coffee granules falling into my empty mug. All the tiny little noises my brain usually filters out because there is something else to think about.

But my brain is avoiding thinking about that something else, the something that is simply too hard to even begin to mull over. What I keep circling back to is that my feelings for her are probably skewing things: either in her favour, or against her, because I'm trying to compensate.

I need to distract myself form all this, so I try straight-out logic: at the moment there is no evidence to suggest her direct involvement. That's easy enough. In fact, there is no evidence of any kind. That's why I'm here now. That's what Claud and I agreed I'd do.

I collect my mug and head over to my office with a sigh.

I switch the computers on to find Claudia has already sent me about a hundred links to literature in the Warehouse database that refer to the Tower of Babel, artefacts that relate to biblical myths, artefacts that relate to languages and artefacts that simply wreak havoc.

I start by putting together a mind map of topics, colour coding information and meta data: era, geography, myth, religion, anthropology, scale... I start working from the centre of my map outwards, making sure I cover a wide range of topics on a regular basis.

It doesn't too much to distract me, probably about eight or ten minutes. Then I'm in the zone.

/ /

It is late. I don't know what time it is because there is no natural daylight where we are and I don't understand the means by which time is told, although I know I should. But it is like the round face of the object on the wall is an alien concept and the movement of the lines across it is meaningless.

The group has settled down some. They have been fascinating to watch throughout the afternoon. Initially, no one could stop talking. Neither of us could understand the other, but we kept on talking to each other, irrespective of understanding, following our instinct to communicate verbally.

Initially, there was the very natural reaction of speaking louder: one makes the assumption that if another doesn't do what one tells them to, another must not have heard one. Thus, one must speak louder. Forces of habit are hard to break.

After that, we all adopted blank looks to give each other as we spoke. By the time Myka had arrived, we managed to create enough rudimentary understanding by means of tonality and hand gestures to play a game of cards.

Karl and I are occupying a bench each at the far end of the infirmary. It sounds like he is already asleep. The rest of the team is on the other side of the room, playing a game. I reckon they have made the rules more complex, having gained confidence in their lack of common language. Watching them is like watching children play – they don't need the rules of language, they just need the rules of the game.

 _She has only just met her cousins, and they are already deeply engrossed in a game of draughts. She barely speaks their language and they barely speak hers, but they all know the game and its rules. They don_ _'_ _t need more._

 _I watch over them while my cousin prepares a light supper for the children. Their gameplay is harmonious to me as an observer: her cousins converse with her in French and she responds in English. Most of the time, the conversation flows as if they actually understand each other. There is such beauty in their interaction. Such innocence. I wonder why we must lose it as we grow older._

 _Christina is the first to be crowned, but loses the game eventually. There is no bitterness, there are no hard feelings. They change seats, pick different colours and start another game. Then another, and another._

I shake my head to return to the present, as lonely as it may feel. It is too easy to liken the way I feel now to the hundred years in which I had no voice, only thoughts and memories. Forces of habit are truly hard to break, especially when the habit had been perfected over a century.

But that is a habit I broke. I broke it by replacing it with another: Myka and I are in the habit of talking.

I close my eyes and try to concentrate on something else, other than me, other than her.

If I understood Myka correctly earlier, we are affected by Babel stones and neutralising them did not work. I wonder if this has a connection to the cape of Apollo, the one that drove Pete over the edge and resulted in Myka's injury.

 _I_ _'_ _m looking into her eyes, their magnificent green is faded. They flicker and dart aimlessly, her eyelids flutter. She is breathing fast and shallow, trying to speak, but her lips are not moving. My hand feels her curls, then her skull, it is not as it should be, and my hand pulls away, my fingers covered in something warm, viscous and sticky. And red._

I tear my eyes open and shake my head more vigorously.

No. I am determined to not be heading down this path.

Babel stones. There was a pile of them in Warehouse twelve, we kept them in a large, open topped crate. I recall questioning Catarunga about them, commenting how much chaos these stones can cause, yet we leave them so exposed. His reasoning stated the difficulty in activating them without giving me details. He reassured me, in his own puzzling way, that there is no need to secure their storage because of it.

There is obviously knowledge in the Warehouse about the Babel stones – if only any of it was in whatever language it is I am capable of reading.

If only there was _anything_ I was able to read, I could certainly use the distraction right about now.

 _I am holding her in my arms, she_ _'_ _s asleep. We had the most splendid day_ _–_ _tea party with Uncle Charlie and his friends in Hatfield. We spent hours in the gardens, playing hide and seek, chasing hares and telling stories about the trees and flowers that grow in the woods that surround Knebworth House._

 _Before dinner she and I were allowed in the armoury, and after a quick bout of wooden sword fighting, more stories were told, of knights and barbarians and wars where courageous warrior queens save the day._

 _I press my lips to her forehead and she sighs in her sleep._

 _"_ _If these are your stories at six, I cannot wait to hear your stories at sixteen, and twenty six,_ _"_ _I whisper into her hair._

I open my eyes again to stare at the white washed ceiling of the infirmary, until my sight blurs with tears.

I can't quite recall feeling so alone.

Not even in bronze.


	5. Chapter 4: Protocol (part 2)

I stumble upon a stack of documents from when Warehouse thirteen was commissioned and handed over. There is a list of high risk items and another list of out-of-the-ordinary security measures.

The Babel stones are on the first list, but not on the second. Other than the stones, the lists are pretty much identical. This is odd – a high risk item that doesn't have a special security measure? I bet Helena knows something about this.

I note this with a red sharpie on a yellow postit and stick it on my whiteboard, between where I track facts about the stones' origin and where I track their history at the Warehouse.

I continue trawling through the archives of the Warehouse for a bit longer, then spend twenty minutes reviewing evidence from another category in my mind map.

I switch categories every twenty minutes. This way I get a pretty well rounded picture about the Babel stones pretty quickly: fact and myth; accounts of incidents in the area where the stones were found; accounts of Warehouse incidents involving the stones; Warehouse inventory records. Then on to artefacts that cause large-scale chaos; artefacts from the same era; artefacts from the same area; artefacts that impact language. A common thread appears from all the documented incidents and artefacts in the cross section between the categories I've researched so far – it's unlikely that touch would activates the stones.

I go back to my chair, sit down and lean back, looking at the whole whiteboard, colourful postits and notes. "This is progress," I say quietly to no one.

I stand up and take a walk around my office, thinking about artefacts that aren't activated by touch, thinking about the lack of security. I stretch and take a look out the window – it's almost daylight. It's early morning. "Oh, shit," I rush to the computers and switch on the video feed from the infirmary and a link to the Warehouse.

The infirmary looks quiet, the team is asleep. I can't find Hel—wait a minute, there she is. Right at the back of the room, on a bench. I can't tell how she is because I can't see her face.

"Good morning," Steve answers sleepily on the other screen.

"Yeah," I answer. "Good something. Any progress?"

"No, not yet. But we barely went through one week's worth of readings," he says. "You?"

"Possibly something, get this." I share with Steve my theory about touch not being the activating event and the evidence that led to that conclusion. "Plus, there is the complete lack of security measures taken to store them, which is weird for such a high risk artefact."

He nods slowly. "So how are they activated?"

"I don't know," I say, frustrated. "Touch is... External, right?" I pace around the room. "It's a brief transference of heat, of energy. You know when it happens, you can brush it off."

"So what if it is a… long touch?" He asks.

I pick his thought and run with it. "What if it is _really_ long touch?"

"What do you mean?"

"What if the touch is constant and long term and not the kind you'd feel? What if it's internal and not external? Like if you got a piece of stone inside you."

"You mean like being stabbed with it?"

"Possibly. Or… or ingesting. Or breathing. Getting tiny pieces of it inside you…" I rush to get my tablet, I remember reading something about it. "There were people who quarried stone in the same area centuries later," I'm looking for the scans I found this in, scrolls from the third and fourth centuries, and letters from the fifteenth century. "This is in our archives," I hold it up to the screen so Steve can see, "people who quarried the stones were affected, not people who carried them."

"How can we find out if the guys have Babel stone inside them?"

"I don't know," I say. "It's not like we can use static bags or goo." I'm thinking about other protocols. If this was a biological agent rather than an artefact, "I suppose we can collect samples."

"I'll get Dr. Calder."

We talk to Dr. Calder who brings her European colleagues at the ECDC on board. Their equipment is far superior to ours and they are more efficient at collecting and analysing biochemical traces.

The brief is to collect samples from anything ingestible the team may have come into contact with on a regular basis. There is also the matter of collecting samples from the team – saliva, blood, waste.

Vanessa is very clear about my role in this: I'm not allowed near the substation, that's an order, no discussion. Whatever I say is met with dismissal. This is protocol. I ring the commanding officer of the adjunct troop to tell him what is going on.

Within a space of thirty minutes two choppers land on the road between the cottage and the substation and the area looks like a scene from Outbreak. There are five HazMats in the cottage collecting samples from pretty much every surface and item. Even Dickens gets sampled.

A sixth HazMat asking me questions about where I had been and what I had touched since coming home.

I feel on edge and a little bit violated, not because strangers are trundling around in my house in protective gear, but because the substation is exposed and Helena is in there, alone, and the bodyguard I hadn't been in over three years is feeling anxious that she isn't protected.

And all of a sudden I'm tired. Really tired. Then a lightbulb goes in my mind and I call Dr. Calder.

"Sorry to call you so late again," I apologise but I'm not really sorry.

"I hope you're still at home, Myka," she scolds me.

"I am," I say, "I just wanted to run something by you."

"What is it?"

"If we're collecting samples based on the assumption that the artefact infection is internal, shouldn't we think about how an internal artefact infection could be neutralised?"

She is silent.

"Did that make sense? It made sense in my head before I called."

"Yes, it's a valid point," she agrees.

"Artie said that ingesting goo makes you see things," my first 48 hours at the Warehouse flash in my memory, "and I can only guess that if it reacts with an artefact internally, the exothermic reaction will be…" I can't find a word to complete the sentence with, other than "exothermic."

Dr. Calder says nothing.

"I did inject someone with the goo once," I recall and start pacing in my office, "but they were completely tripped on the artefact, and it was a tiny amount, and we knew exactly where the artefact was embedded, and there was no time to think about –"

"Thanks, Myka," she cuts into my nervous account.

"For what?"

"For speeding up our thinking process. I'll be in touch."

"Waitwaitwait—" I yell into the phone.

Damn it. I need to find something to do, or I will go insane.

I go back to the office and log in to the HG system. I bring up logs from the past twenty four hours. This should be enough time to see where people were when things started happening. I also bring up security footage from yesterday morning. While the data loads, I'm going through my phone and emails.

I start piecing together a timeline, what happened when. I start from my call to Helena, and forward – till I got to the substation. Then I start working from the call backwards, using the HG logs and the footage from the substation. I track every team members' movements in the hours before the call. If I place them on a blueprint of the substation, I'll have a map of who was where during the time leading up to the call, when it all started.

I look at the clock and it is nearly midday. The HazMats are still collecting samples from the barracks and the team. I bring the Warehouse back online.

"Yes!" Artie answers.

"The infection had to have happened yesterday," I say.

"Why?" he challenges.

"Because Helena was affected, but I wasn't. I was in London yesterday and she was at the substation."

"So?"

"So she was in London with me until yesterday," my days are bleeding into each other, "or... or the day before. But she didn't go to the substation _until_ yesterday."

"So?"

"So if it happened before the day before, when she and I were still in London, she and I wouldn't be infected. But she was there and I was on the train. She is infected and I'm not."

"So?"

"So I don't think we need to process all that stuff they are collecting from the barracks or our house or the team's houses. If the artefact was where we live, then I will have either been infected before or should be infected now. I think that the Babel stones' proxy is _inside_ the substation."

"Why are you telling me this? Tell it to the ECDC people in your back yard," he is fantastic about stating the obvious.

"Right," I acknowledge and lean over to close the call.

"Myka?"

"Yes?"

"Have you slept?" grumpiness vanishes from his voice.

"No."

"Don't you think you should try?"

"I can't, Artie."

"Go."

I hang up and print off my maps of where the team was in the hours before the infection. I'm positive it can help narrow down the search perimeter. It can definitely prioritise the order in which samples are tested. I rush to the door, zip myself up in my HazMat and drive over to the substation.

The leader of the ECDC team stops me at the gate and with the most polite French accent tells me he is under strict guidance to not let me anywhere near the substation. I explain to him why I'm there and he recalls his team. He and I work through a blueprint of the substation and I show them where my team's activity had been concentrated the morning of the infection.

They agree an outwards spiral canvassing pattern for sample collection – their standard protocol.

"Who's been to the team?" I ask the group.

Two HazMats of the female variety raise their hands.

"How are they?"

"They seem okay," one of them says with a Dutch accent. "They are playing cards."

I walk up to them, thinking whether or not I should say what I want to say. I decide there is no time to overthink something I may regret later. "And Helena?"

"The black haired one?"

I nod.

"She's very quiet."

"Can you tell her…" I'm trying to think what they could say that could register. "Can you just tell her 'Myka says hi'?"

I can just about see them nodding in their helmets and they head back into the substation.

The French guy pulls me through the gate and – again – very politely asks me to leave while actually placing me behind the wheel of the Rover. I know there is no point in arguing, so drive back to the cottage to continue investigating what caused all this.

By early afternoon I am out of coffee, have scanned more than half the Warehouse's archives and gone through thirty six hours' worth of surveillance footage from the substation. I can do with a break, so I walk to the village to pick up coffee and milk, and the fresh air and different setting do me a world of good.

When I get back, I'm greeted by the French guy who tells me they are finished with collecting samples. They are heading back to their labs in Cambridge and Rotterdam for analysis and he will be in touch in due course. He reminds me to not leave the cottage.

As night rolls in, I'm tired of reading history and tired of watching surveillance. I'm worried and alone and I miss the team in South Dakota and the team at the substation. I miss Helena. I bring up the feed from the infirmary and watch them. They are still playing cards. I'm not sure what game it is, the gameplay doesn't resemble anything I know. But they are engrossed. There isn't a hint of the boredom or nervousness I saw yesterday. Seeing them together makes me feel better knowing they have each other, that they are passing the time.

Without thinking, I look for Helena. She is flanked by Martin and Jade. They seem to be giving her tips on how to play her hand. They are all quite loud and emphatic with their own languages, except Helena and Karl. I want to say something, to join in. My hand hovers over the mouse to unmute my mic, but I can't think of anything I want to say. Anything that would make sense. So I say nothing.

I spend the rest of the evening reviewing the last references to the Babel stones and internally affecting artefacts, only to learn that there are no documented cures. The infection either passes on its own or it never passes. From what I've found so far, there is a shocking lack of evidence to indicate that the Babel stones' infection passes.

I slump against the bookcase I was sitting under feeling the weight of the books settle on top me. From this vantage point, at the far end of my office, opposite to the desk and door, I can see just how much information I went through over the past couple of days. So much information, and so little good news.

I breathe in deeply and exhale heavily. No good news unless Dr. Calder finds a way to make neutralising less… Sparky.

As if by magic, a call from the Warehouse flashes on the screen of my computer. Claudia is in the middle of the frame with Artie and Dr. Calder on either side of her. I start pushing books and papers off of me to get up and get to my desk.

"Myka?" Dr. Calder calls, looking for me on their screen.

"I'm coming," I hurry over, stubbing my toe on the way, cursing under my breath.

"We weren't sure you'd be up," Claudia says. "Isn't it like, 3am?"

"It is, but there's just too much to do," I say and lean over the desk. I can't sit anymore. "What's up?"

Dr. Calder explains the preliminary results from the ECDC: they believe the infection is through the respiratory system. They found a sandstone residue in saliva and mucus samples of the team. The particular sandstone they found appears to be native to our area in Wales, but has unique chemical markers. It also reacts with goo. The working theory is that this dust is the proxy to the artefact. Its bulk was also found in the perimeter I outlined as a primary search area.

"Dust?" I don't know if I'm surprised or shocked at the level of evil ingenuity. "But there is an air circulation system… There are filters." My brain is putting puzzle pieces together.

"The dust particles are small enough pass through the filters," Claudia says with a very serious face.

"Oh my god," I exclaim, "like the displacement energy was muted," I say.

"Yes," Artie verifies.

I straighten my back and run my hands through my hair. "Someone took an awful lot of time to come up with this," I start pacing the length of the room, "and they knew exactly how to get around every single system we have in place." I muse out loud.

"I don't think it's someone on this end," Artie says, softly, "given the level of detail being abused, we think it's someone at the substation."

Fuck. I'm not sure if I think it or say it, but I pace faster as I choke back tears, I feel my jaw and my fists clench, my heart is racing. I've never seen red in my life, and I think this is a close relative. "Who?" I whisper.

"It could be any of them," Claudia says quietly.

I well up because I shouldn't be thinking what I'm thinking. After all this time, all _our_ time together I shouldn't even be considering "Helena?"

"There is nothing to suggest it's her," Claudia says and pauses. "But we are sort of at the same place with all of them."

Fuck. I bite my lips and I'm not sure what I feel anymore. "Now what?"

"Now we need to neutralise it," Dr. Calder speaks up, "that's the good news. We think we will have a compound ready for first tests in a few hours."

I go to my desk and lean down so I can see them and they can see me. "I can't sit in here anymore," I shake my head, "I'm going crazy."

"Well, once the compound is tested and we know the dust they inhaled can be neutralised, we will need to find a way to neutralise the dust that's still in the substation," Artie says.

"I know two people who are perfect to for coming up with a solution," I say, "but I don't know if we can trust them." I well up again, so I turn away from the screen.

"Let's see what they come up with. Let's see who comes up with it," he suggests.

"You know that could mean nothing," I spit angrily. "Whichever one of them did it…" I take a steadying breath, "…worked so hard to become one of us, that this…" I turn to face the screen, my fists clench and unclench at my sides with fury and frustration, "this could tell us absolutely _nothing_."

"True, but it's all we've got right now," Artie says.

I take a deep breath and place my hands on my hips to stop them from twitching. "Fine," I nod, "I'll get on that."

I start putting together an animated presentation annotated in six dead languages to explain what had happened over the past day.

I lean back in my chair and think about the ramifications of what Artie and Claud just told me, what we are suspecting, who we are suspecting. I'm so angry right now, but I'm not sure who I'm angry with or why. I'm angry with myself for trusting all these new people, the team at the substation. I'm angry with every single one of them for betraying my trust. I'm angry with myself for trusting Helena and even angrier with myself for not trusting her. I'm angry with her for – I don't know – her darkness. I'm angry with her because she is _actually_ capable of hatching this plan. And I'm angry with myself for – apparently – not being as forgiving as I thought I was.

This loop of anger and betrayal is driving me mad. There is only one person who could snap me out of it. I reach for my Farnsworth and hail, but the person who appears on the screen is not who I was expecting.

"Jane," my surprise is evident.

"Hello Myka," she says, "Pete's at the hospital."

"Ah, of course," I answer. I remember how long I had to do physio for, and my leg and arm weren't partially severed. "How is he doing?"

"He's healing, getting better every day," she sounds so much better than when she was here with him.

"I saw he was walking the other day."

"Yes, he's not supposed to, but you know what he's like," she chuckles and I do too. "How about you?"

I chortle. "I've had better days," I say and nod expressively.

"You look it."

I laugh. Only Lattimers. "I don't expect I look like much after the 48 hours I've had." Only 48. It feels so much longer than that.

I smile wearily at her, and she smiles back.

"You're a good agent, Myka," she says to me. "A good agent and a good person. You'll find a way through this."

I look at her questioningly.

"You always do. Just trust yourself. If Pete were here, he would tell you the same thing."

She's right, Pete would have told me the same thing. And this is why I called him. He's the one who would give me confidence to do this. "Thanks, Jane." I smile at her, and this is the most relieved I felt throughout the whole thing.

"Anytime," She says.

"Jane?" I want to say this because I don't want to regret not saying it later, whatever later holds. "I miss him. Could you tell him, please?"

She nods slowly.

"I miss you too," I say.

She smiles.

"We miss you, Myka. I'll tell him you called."

I remain seated for another moment, staring at the silent Farnsworth. I need to go through all this again, slowly, one piece at a time, as if I were talking to Pete. I need to be honest about the evidence, honest about how I feel, honest about the possibilities, difficult as they may be. So I close my eyes and flick through all the images and all the facts my memory collected over the past two days.

Other than Helena there are five people in that room. All of them have the same level of access she does, some of them have the same level of technical know-how. And seeing as honesty is the name of the game here, I don't know any of them well enough to be absolutely sure whether they were ever tempted by the Dark Side.

It makes me think of Pete and his Darth Vader imitation, and I smile.

They are all suspects, and they are all victims. Helena is too. And when I consider all of them, her history is just as damning as how little I know of any of the others.

I say it again – out loud this time. "Helena's history is as damning as how little I know about the rest of them." This makes sense. It feels like a status quo I can live with for now.

Now I need to finish my presentation. I need them to come up with a way to neutralise the dust inside the substation. The elaborate Prisoner's Dilemma of who will do what to serve what agenda means nothing for now.

I take another steadying breath. Let's see what the day brings, shall we? – I convince myself to get going. It makes me think of Helena. "Once more into the breach," I mumble as I get up.

I check in with Dr. Calder – I need to let the team out of the infirmary so they can work in the Helm on a solution. I also ask her permission to go up there and work with them through the airlock. She consults her team and gives me a green light.

At 7am I wake the commanding officer of the troop to update him, get zipped in my HazMat and make my way to the substation.

I get comfortable in the airlock. I set up the terminal, infirmary feed and remote access to the Helm's screens, give my presentation a last once-over. At 8am they wake up because of an alarm on Martin's watch.

I open the door to the infirmary so they could get to the Helm. They look confused and ask each other questions and answer them – all in their own languages. They seem oddly at peace with the situation now. I tap the thick bullet proof glass of the airlock to grab their attention as they walk in. So is the first to notice and she waves. She pulls Helena out of the infirmary and points towards me. Helena looks up and her face lights up. She tries not to make it too obvious, but she chooses a seat where she can make direct eye contact with me.

As they all find a place I start with a 'hi' and a 'how are you'. They all nod, some of them mutter an answer. Cynicism transcends language. I take them through the presentation, explain about the internal infection; Dr. Calder's investigation; the dust.

I watch their faces closely as I go through the details. Watching their reactions, their expressions. Nothing jumps out. Well, that's not true. Helena steals glances in my direction. They are not her usual, cocky glances. She seems humble, shy even. More than anything, she seems tired. Tired and sad.

I'm trying to explain the task I'm handing them: the dust in the substation needs to be neutralised. It's their job to find a way to do it. The last slide I hold up to them are the spines of all the protocols they may find useful.

Jade and Helena are on their feet in seconds, moving the protocol folders from the shelves to the table at the center of the Helm. They open up the schematics and blue prints of every system in the substation. They both speak excitedly, pointing and drawing things on the blueprints and loose pieces of paper.

The language they're vocalising doesn't matter, because – really – they speak Engineering.

So and Martin are watching Jade and Helena, occasionally getting up or leaning in, saying something or pointing at something. Mac and Karl are hanging back. She is watching him, he is watching the group. Eventually, Mac gets up to help and drags Karl with her.

From what I can tell, they narrowed down the scope: the two systems they are focused on are air filtering and fire suppression. Helena stopped working with the protocols and is drawing something else entirely.

My phone rings.

"Bering," I answer, assuredly.

"Myka, it's Vanessa."

"Dr. Calder, how can I help?"

"We have a compound that we think can neutralise the internal infection."

"That's good news."

"There are risks, though."

I take a deep breath. That's her way of warning me that things could go sideways, that this is dangerous. "What are you asking me?"

"We took this up the channels and we have orders…" she pauses.

I sigh heavily and walk out of the airlock. I look up to a beautiful summer morning sky through my HazMat helmet. I know what she is saying without actually saying it. I was given orders so many times before, orders I always followed. I hate this aspect of this job. Hate it.

"Myka?" I hear her calling my name.

I haven't been given the order officially, but I can fill in the blanks: I'll have to administer this compound that may – or may not – work. It may even hurt or kill someone. I stifle another sigh. "I'm here."

"I know it's a lot to ask."

"It is."

"Are you okay with it?"

"Does it matter?"

We are both silent.

"We sent the equipment out an hour ago. It should be with you this evening."

"Thank you," I say and hang up.

I'm standing outside for a few more minutes, taking this in, processing. It all felt like too much earlier, when my team were named the prime suspects, when I named Helena. It feels like too much now, handing them something that could cure them, but could also do the very opposite.

I send Dr. Calder a text message: Please send me the CDC reports. I need to know. M.

I can hear a faint banging sound from the airlock so I shuffle back. An excited Jade and a more excited Helena are talking over each other, both holding up lists and schematics to the glass. They mention Claudia and Steve and Kevin by name – the only words I can understand amongst dozens of other words I don't.

I ask them to hold up their plans against the glass and I take pictures. I email them to Claudia and hail her on the Farnsworth. It takes her a while answer and when she does, she is engrossed in something, reading.

"Good morning," she says distractedly. "I'm looking this over as we speak."

"I'll wait," I say.

"This is clever stuff," she says, impressed. "Is this H?"

"The drawing is Helena. The system augmentation is Jade."

"Clever stuff," she drawls, squinting at the screen, taking in the details of the images. "Do I have time to run this by Kevin?"

"Funny you should say that," I answer. "I think they wanted you to."

She smiles at me. "Give me an hour. Can you hold on for an hour?"

"Sure," and the call ends.

I check my emails for a message from Dr. Clader and it's there, along with 80 pages of results and analysis from the CDC. I read her message first:

Myka, In the interest of time we couldn't adhere to the full CDC protocol when testing the compound. The tests we did manage to run are within what the CDC considers safe. We ran the results against the team's medical history, and we think it is safe enough to use. However, I cannot wholeheartedly promise you that using the compound is without risks. I – personally – believe that the benefits outweigh them.

Let me know if you have any questions. Vanessa.

My mind is racing at a hundred miles a second sorting out fact and logic and emotion. I can feel myself starting to tense up, so I take a few deep, cleansing breaths; because there is no time to get stuck. There is too much to do.

I look in on the team, they started scavenging for materials to build Helena's contraption. They all seem to be taking part. There's a water tank, some pressure valves and a pump from the heating system, pipes and cables, glue gun, vacuum cleaner. For a group of people who has no common language, they seem to be doing a darn good job.

Helena is back at the table, drawing. Something seems to be troubling her about the design. She calls Jade over who calls So. Helena asks Mac to join and they all move towards the whiteboards. They each start what looks like a set of calculations, each with their own numeric system, each with their own logic. When Karl and Martin return with lunch packs, they join the ancient mathletics showcase. I take some pictures and forward them to Claudia.

I'm mesmerised by them, and I realise that this is the most peaceful I had been over the past two days. So I continue watching them, because as long as I'm watching them, I'm not thinking about anger or betrayal or the fucking compound and the fucking orders from the fucking CDC. Then my Farnsworth blares.

I open it, "Hey."

It's Claudia, "can you get me linked up with a video feed to the Helm?"

"When? Now?"

"Yeah. I think I know what they're doing, and I want to help them reduce the variables."

"Sure, give me minute," I say and tap the override security codes in the terminal. Claudia appears on all the screens inside the Helm, it's a little bit freaky.

She shows them a single means of measuring and denoting time, and explains how modern Physics deals with time variables. That way, there will be only one way to extrapolate the time variable, instead of six.

With Claud joining the conversation, I can understand what's going on: they are calculating how much air they will need to pump through substation to effectively replace its air content, how long it will take given the instruments they have, how much goo is required.

When my phone rings, I find it even more difficult to stop watching them now that I really understand what's going on. I glance at the screen quickly – it's Kevin. Steve's Kevin.

"Hey, Kevin," I answer.

"You've got some clever cookies working for you, I'll tell you that," he says.

"You should be watching this, I'm sure you'd enjoy it even more than I do."

"I bet. It's a MacGyver and Apollo 13 crossover – how to build a high-powered air pump that neutralises artefact dust with things you will find in Substation One."

"That's Helena's drawing, right?"

"Yeah. I'll need to send you a technical drawing to make sure it's connected to the air system correctly and a checklist to make sure it does what it's meant to."

"So you think this will work?" the hopeful part of me, the part that trusts Helena implicitly, is far too excited to be casual about asking this.

"I think so. Claudia has already designed neutraliser canisters to fit with Helena's designs, and I'm printing them as we speak."

"What about Jade's plan?"

"Genius. He is making the fire suppression system into an artefact suppression system. We can make it work better if we replace the goo with the stuff in Claud's canisters."

I'm beyond impressed. "This is awesome." I can feel tentative relief creeping in again, and excitement, too.

"So I'll send you a checklist for all things you need to do in order to make sure all of this is wired the right way, so it works."

"Thanks so much, Kevin. I really appreciate it," I say and lean against the airlock hatch, my back to the Helm.

"Nothing to it, Myka," he says.

"Really. I don't think you realise just how…" I stop and sigh.

"Myka?"

"Hmmm?"

"Will you be able to get some sleep now?"

"I don't know."

"You should try. It'll be another hour before we are done over here and then we need to ship the canisters over. You have time till tonight."

"Thanks, Kevin. I'll try."

"You do that," he says and we hang up.

A tap on the hatch behind me startles me and I turn around. Helena is standing there, smiling. I smile back at her. Someone calls her name and she goes back to work on her pump.

I watch them for a bit longer, enjoying their energy, then turn sideways, lean against the wall so I can still watch them while reading the CDC and ECDC reports about the compound. The science makes perfect sense, but the statistics reads like a foreign language. I think any one of them will be able to make as much sense of it as I can.

I need to make a choice: follow the orders or disregard them. Following the orders is easy, disobeying orders needs thinking through. If I choose to not follow, I will want to share the risks with the team and let them make a choice about using the compound. This will mean the team might split: those who want to use the compound and those who don't. Now it's become tricky to manage.

I do have other options, though. I let them run through my mind as I watch them for a few more minutes, and then I make a decision.

I leave them to work and I head to the cottage. I get some more coffee and sit down with my glossaries for their six languages and begin to write, as best as I can, a short message in each. The message reads: medicine is coming. It is new. It may be dangerous. The healer believes it will work. I will try it too.

I have to use the word "healer" because "Doctor" doesn't exist, and I have no clue how to use the letters of these languages phonetically to write "Calder".

Then I text Dr. Calder:

Can I be a control subject for the compound?

She responds:

That's not necessary.

I write:

I believe it is.

There are a few moments of silence, and she writes:

Do you understand the risks?

I write:

I do. I read the report. I can't ask them to take a risk I won't be willing to take.

She responds:

Good luck.

An hour later two soldiers knock on the cottage's door with the equipment Dr. Calder sent. I open one of the boxes to check it: it looks like firemen's breathing apparatus, full facial mask with two compressors, rather than one: one is connected to a high grade carbon filter, the other is connected to a pressurised cylinder marked 'O2, Flammable'.

There is also a set of pictorial instructions of how to use the masks and compressors. Well done, CDC.

I head back to the substation and update the officer on duty with what's been going on and what's due to happen over the next few hours.

"When they told me 'need to know basis' I thought this was experimental weapons or torture, and I was curious." the officer says. "After the last two days, I'm not sure I want to know."

"You wouldn't believe it if you knew," I smile.

It's nearly 9pm by the time I get back to check on the team. Helena's design looks finished. It's as real as it could be, standing on the floor beside the table. Helena is the only one still tinkering with it. Karl and So are by the whiteboards, Mac, Martin and Jade are around the table, eating.

I tap on the glass to grab their attention, then switch on the two way comms between the airlock and the Helm. "We think we have a solution for neutralising the dust, but we don't know how safe it is." I hold up the note in Aramaic to the camera. I want Helena to be the first to know. She steps up to the screen to read it. She furrows her brow, shakes her head, reads it again, then says something quietly and walks away. I swap the notes and hold the one in Phoenician up. Jade leans in and nods. He looks into the camera and gives me a thumb up. Next is Sumerian for So, Assyrian for Martin, Hittite for Karl and Greek for Mac. They all give me thumbs up.

Except Helena. I hold the Aramaic back up. "Helena?" I ask.

She walks up to the airlock's door. She is looking at me, sultry, tired, hurt. I nod gently, pleading. I need her to agree. She seems to relent and nods back. She gives me somewhat reluctant thumbs up and goes back to her contraption.

I take them through what will happen when I'm back – the air pump, the fire suppression, the masks. I get five out of six thumbs up. Karl didn't quite get it.

I look into the camera and say "I'll be back at 3," I click to the last slide in my presentation, an image a clock – like the one in the infirmary – reading 3:00. "I'll be back". I look at them through the airlock door. Then back at the camera. "Go sleep," I say. "Hypnos". Mac nods and ushers them back into the infirmary.

I head back to the cottage where I have a set of instructions from Kevin waiting for me. I review them with him to make sure I get it. By the time we're finished it's past midnight.

"Are you still drinking coffee?" this isn't a question as much as it is him chiding me.

I stare back at him for a minute. "Do you want this to work?"

"Of course I do."

"Then let me have my coffee."

We go through it all one more time, I print a cheat sheet, and we sign off. I sit in my office, messier than it had ever been, books and papers and postits and tablets and drawings everywhere. I'm calling back the past two and a half days, from coming home early on a lunchtime train, to now, a few hours away from one of the most ambitious snags ever conducted.

I'm ready for this.

I fold the cheat sheet and tuck it in my back pocket, go to the door and get zipped into the HazMat. I need to go in and check the installation before the 3am start time. I grab the helmet and drive to the substation.

The patrolling soldiers approach me as I get out of the Rover.

"Did you find your mate?" one of them asks me.

"Excuse me?" I'm more confused than I sound.

"Your mate, the tall chap. Did you find him?" the other one says.

"There was a tall chap here?" confusion is replaced by an acute sense of danger.

"Were you not the one out here looking for him?" the second soldier volunteers.

I can feel every muscle in my body tensing. "Okay, stop." I command. "What did you see and when?"

"A girl, about your size, wearing this suit," he points at my HazMat, "came out of the station about 10 minutes ago, asked about a 6ft tall guy, possibly in a suit like this."

Six feet tall, that could be Karl. "And did you?"

"We saw a HazMat suit walking towards the ridge," they point up the mountain the substation is built into.

"Christ," I mutter. Something is not sitting right. "She _asked_ you?"

"Yeah," the first one answer.

"She was using SAS code, hand gestures," the second one volunteers.

SAS signals is Mac. She's the only one with that background.

I remember sitting on the train two and a half days ago, hoping no one tried anything stupid. Well, stupid just happened. "You two – back to your barracks. Lock it down. Now. No one in or out until I tell you. Open for no one unless it's me."

"Yes, ma'am," they rush off.

"Hey!" I shout after them and they turn around. "Were they armed?"

"She had a gun with a glass tube on it," one of them says.

I run into the substation and lock it up using the shutdown codes only Artie and I have – no one can get out now. I rush back to the Rover and reach under the driver's seat for a small metal case. I try to unlock it but can't because the HazMat gloves are too clumsy. I zip myself out of the suit and dump it by the car. I get my gun out of the metal case, load it and head up the mountain.

There are acres of woods up here and I would be lost in the daytime, let alone in the middle of the night. After fifteen minutes of going uphill, the futility of chasing two people in the woods, in the dark, with no idea of the direction they were headed in takes hold. I know Claudia's locator was designed to track HGs inside the substation, but the suits are fitted with similar trackers. So I VPN my phone to the substation and hope it picks them up.

The screen lights up with the locator app and I cannot possibly love Claudia more. There is a black screen with two red arrows, pointing north-west, with numbers on them: 1.2 and 0.9. I'm guessing the direction of the arrows points to where the suits are in relation to me, and the numbers are distance. I don't even care if these are kilometres or miles.

I start up with a fast walk, but I can't seem to close the distance. So I start jogging. Ten minutes in and I'm closing in, but they are moving fast up the mountain. I keep up for another ten minutes, checking the app every once in a while.

I am closing in on them, much faster than before, which means they stopped. I slow my pace down and check the app again, they are now heading back down the mountain, towards me. I look up in their direction and see the shades and shapes two HazMats walking downhill alarmingly fast. I can't quite make out the detail.

Somewhere at the back of my mind, I'm calculating scenarios and risks. I have so little information to work with, though, so risks could be just about anything. Thinking about it is pointless, so I stop thinking and let instinct kick in.

I crouch down and wait for them to get closer. I can hear their voices. Definitely Mac and Karl. They're not speaking English, they're not even speaking the same language, and whatever they're discussing – it doesn't give the impression of calm. They are approaching where I'm crouched and I can see that Mac is in the lead, hands on her head. Karl is behind her holding a gun. I wonder where the Tesla is.

I let them walk past me, and I stand up behind Karl, loosening my safety with a loud click. "Hold it right there and drop the gun," I say slowly, calmly, my voice low.

Mac turns but he doesn't. He cocks his gun, aims it at her head. He says something and he sounds angry. Very angry. I let him finish.

"I'm really sorry, but I don't know what you are saying, Karl. Whatever it is, though, a gun won't help. Put it down."

He is angrier now, I can hear it in his voice even though I can't see his face. He is shaking the gun as he speaks. Mac tries to step sideways, but slips on the steep slope. He grabs her by the arm and pulls her up to him, pressing the gun to her temple. Mac hasn't quite got her footing, and he keeps pulling her up, while shouting at her, or me, or both of us.

I tighten the hold on my gun, dig my heels in, aligning my position. I do this on instinct, getting ready to fire. The only reason I haven't fired already is because I'm too close to him and any shot I take will hit Mac as well. She keeps moving and I can't see her well enough to know where my bullet will hit. "Don't, Karl." I speak slowly. "Drop the gun, and we all walk down together."

What happens next is over in a split second, before it even begins. Mac falters again, either because of the wet ground or because she is trying to get away. She pushes into Karl who fires twice. Then I fire. Twice.

In a split second, Mac is bleeding out and Karl is on his back next to her with two bullets in his right shoulder. I take slow steps towards him, looking for his gun to disarm him. He manages to take the gun in his left hand and he is holding it up. "Don't do it," I hiss and hold my gun up at him. His left arm is shaking and falls limp, the gun lands under his chin, and he pulls the trigger.

My heart is in my throat, thundering, echoing in my ears, throbbing in my temples. I am not entirely sure what just happened, I'm not at all sure why. What kicks in is protocol. They are still affected by an artefact, and they need to be quarantined.

I holster my gun and start running down the mountain faster than I knew I could. My boots are and pants catch on branches and ferns and I tear through them. I land on a loose piece of rock and twist my ankle, slip down a strip of rock sideways. I hit the bottom of it with a roll, get up, and continue running.

I run until I reach the soldiers' barracks. I knock on the officer's door. "I need you to get suited up and get a stretcher, I'll be back in five."

I don't wait for him to acknowledge before I head to the Rover. I pick up the suit I threw to the ground earlier – it's ruined. I reach for Helena's – still on the back seat – and put it on. I unlock the substation and get in, past the airlock, into the Helm. I walk into the infirmary – it's obvious there was a fight: furniture turned over, linen on the floor. Jade, So, Helena and Martin are huddled on the bench Helena was sleeping on at the back of the room, near the storage cabinets. Martin's arm is badly bruised. The rest of them seem okay.

I look at them. "I'm so sorry," is all I can say, before reaching above them, to pull out two large, thick black plastic bags, folded neatly into tight rectangles. I head to the door, grabbing a neutralising extinguisher (pressurised goo in a fire extinguisher) on my way out. I initiate a decontamination sequence from inside the airlock.

When it finishes, I get out and lock them in the substation again, because it's protocol. I can't think beyond protocol, because I don't think I can handle it.

I go up to the barracks to find the officer waiting for me in his HazMat suit with a stretcher. I signal him to follow me and we walk up the mountain, about two and a half miles, to where Karl and Mac are. He helps me put their bodies in the body bags I brought with me. We secure them to the stretcher and I use the extinguisher on the ground where they were. There are no sparks. I will need to decontaminate it thoroughly, but I can do that later.

Now I have two bodies to carry down the mountain and a substation to clean.

The officer and I carry both bodies as far as the airlock. I run another decontamination sequence with us in it. When it's finished, I open the external hatch and point him out.

"How will you manage?" he asks.

"Need to know basis, and you really don't need to know," I say coldly. "But thank you."

He nods and walks away. I take my helmet off and switch on the video feed to the team. "Karl and Mac are gone," I try to remain stoic. "I'll be back soon. I need to get the goo canisters for your solution."

I leave the video feed on and head out, locking the substation behind me. I get to the cottage and wait for Claud's canisters to arrive. I look at my watch for the whole of eleven minutes and fifty two seconds until I hear a car on the drive.

I leap out of the house and grab the box from the hands of the soldiers who brought it. When I am back at the airlock, before zipping my suit up, I run through the sequence of decontaminating the substation in my mind. I remember the cheat sheet in my back pocket, and move it to the pouch on the sleeve of the suit, next to where I strapped my watch.

I look at the two black bags in the airlock, purple neutraliser pooled on them, two agents inside. Two friends. I replay the half-a-second up on the mountain in my head once, twice, three times, four times.

Enough.

It was protocol.

I take my helmet off and put on a CDC mask. I switch on the filtered compressor - this should keep the air I breathe in dust-free. Working will be easier without the HazMat helmet. I open the inner airlock hatch to the Helm, kick the two crates with the masks in, and close the hatch behind me.

I take out my cheat sheet and walk to Helena's contraption. I don't even have it in me to be amazed by it and by her, but I know they are both worthy of amazement. I go through all the items on Kevin's list. It seems to be wired the right way.

I flick the switch on the contraption and the pumps start whirring. Helena put a little Perspex pane in the cylinder and I can see how much dust is being collected in the filters. My eyes flicker between her contraption and my watch, knowing that I have to follow the instructions I was given to a tee. Ten minutes in, I push in Claudia's canister. There is crackling now, the powder obviously doing its job, the small Perspex pane is glowing in purple and orange.

I watch the pane, then my watch, then the pane, then my watch. Time seems to be going at a snail's pace and my brain is breaking the land-speed record. The past three days keep playing and replaying in my mind, the past three hours in particular.

I'm sure it's because I'm pumped up on adrenalin and endorphins from the run up and down the mountain, from the shootout, from the gallons of caffeine I've had over the past three days, from the lack of sleep.

I am also dehydrated and tired and angry and anxious and on edge. My god, am I on edge. I feel _everything_. Every wisp of air. Every bead of sweat. Every twitch of a muscle. My hands feel like they are encased in newspaper. My eyes feel like they are made out of tree bark and my eyelids scrape across them like nails.

The act of standing here, waiting for dust to collect in a cylinder is worse than watching paint dry. It's actual, physical torture.

After an hour, I replace the canister with a new one. The crackling is not showing signs of stopping. As I watch the dust collect and neutralise, I can't help but think about the magnitude of evil genius this plan is. Not just an artefact that is remotely activated, but also one that cannot be located and neutralised. Not on mass anyway. This is Artefact warfare on WMD scale.

As the minutes tick by I am thinking about what this warfare means: what if it contaminates a civilian population? What if it contaminates air control towers? What if contaminates an army or security force? What might the agenda be of the person behind it: world domination? Profit? Anarchy?

I am thinking about whether I am ready for this warfare.

For war.

Whether war is what I signed up for.

I'm really not sure.

Two hours in, and the third canister is plugged. This is the critical hour. All the calculations suggest that this is the hour is when enough dust will be collected and neutralised to move on to phase two. All the calculations were, of course, conducted in separate languages and mathematical methods. I need to wait until the sparking subsides and then deal with the fire suppression system. It's also time pay a visit to the team in the infirmary, give them the breathing apparatus and go through what will happen next – again – for protocol's sake, if nothing else.

Cowboy up, Bering; I hear Jane Lattimer psyching me up. Let's neutralise the hell out of Dodge. With a laboured huff, I stretch and pick up the two CDC crates to the infirmary.

The team, what's left of it, is silent. If I learned anything over the past three days is that you don't need language to tell how people are. Jade is curled up on top of one of the beds, So is securing an ice pack to Martin's arm. Helena is standing by the door.

"The pump is working," their attention turns to me when I start speaking. I know they can't understand, but I hope they can get the gist of it. "So far so good," I try to pour positivity into my tone, but it's hard. I have so little left in me. "It's time for phase two," I hold two fingers up and then point at the crates.

Helena speaks as she takes one of the crates from me. She opens it and holds up a mask. She states something else to the room, and hands the mask to So. So, I assume, thanks her and inspects the mask. Helena and I pass the masks around, and I show them how to remove the safety caps and put the mask on. I then walk around the room, making sure everyone's masks are on securely, compressors, filters and gas cylinders all primed and running. They are breathing the compound now.

I switch on the second compressor on my mask. I'm breathing the compound too. A round of thumbs up from everyone confirms we are all in the same boat.

I turn to the wall clock at the back of the infirmary and set it to ten thirty. I turn back to the room and spend nearly two minutes making sure everyone gets that only when the clock hits twelve they are allowed to take their masks off.

Another round of thumbs up. Fantastic.

As I head out the door Helena reaches for my hand. I reach for hers instinctively. We touch for the brief second that I walk past, but I can't hold on for longer. If I do, it will make _this_ touch significant. I can't let it become significant.

And I can't do "what if's" right now, because if I do I will fall apart. So I let her hand slip out of mine as I walk out of the infirmary.

This is the riskiest part of the plan. It means sealing them in that room, emptying it of air and replacing it with clean, filtered air, artefact-dust-free air. For the time it takes to replace the air in the room, they will rely on the masks they are wearing, masks decked with a new chemical compound that hasn't been properly tested, a compound designed to counteract the artefact without sparking up.

The infirmary's doors close behind me with a hiss and I engage the lock that will seal the room off hermetically. There are so many things that can go wrong over the next ninety minutes. Too many to contemplate. I could have, effectively, killed the five of us already.

Cowboy up, Myka. Dodge could do with a good scrubbing.

I'm back at the Helm, collecting the parts I need to add to the fire suppression system. As I tinker with the valves and pipes, I wish my pre-med and pre-law education were also supplemented with some mechanical engineering.

Augmenting the fire suppression system to Jade's specification takes me more than the ten minutes Kevin thought it would take. My guess is that the HazMat gloves are not making it easier. I also lost any and all agility in my hands and fingers.

Crammed into a small space, working with wrenches and pipes and pliers and wires, battling the suit and feeling stiff as two short planks is pushing me to my limits. But it forces me to focus on what I need to do and not think about anything else. And that's a really good thing.

I fumble for the crumpled cheat sheet in my pocket to check the reality I managed to unscrew and screw back together matches Jade's drawings and Kevin's instructions. It looks similar enough. I double check. Then triple check.

I look at my watch, we have been breathing the compound for nearly half an hour. It's time to trigger the fire suppression system. I walk back to the Helm and hold a very shaky hand over the fire alarm switch. I count five extra minutes on my watch that push us over the thirty minutes threshold, then firmly pull the stiff switch down, giving myself no time to contemplate the possible consequences of this action.

The substation goes completely dark. The only light source is my watch.

The emergency generators kick start – I can hear the distant buzz. No lights will go on, I remind myself. This is the fire protocol.

There is a strong gust of wind as the fine mix of fire suppressant, ash, sand, and purple neutraliser dust are pumped along walls, floors and ceilings. There is random crackling and fizzing from all over the substation. Standing at the Helm, with the substation completely dark, I can see it all going off: all around me in the Helm and in the farthest corners of the substation. It's beautiful to watch. It would have been spectacular if it weren't so sinister.

I look at my watch. Right now the air is being sucked out from the infirmary. The pressure will be dropping for four…three…two…one more second; now the filtered air is being pumped in. I watch the seconds tick by and count back, out loud, the two minutes it should take the infirmary to have its' entire air volume replaced.

I can't even go and wait outside the infirmary because I need to monitor the fire system's protocol, make sure it doesn't do anything it's not supposed to. After a while the crackling dies down and there is nothing to watch. I am just standing in the middle of the Helm, looking out into a vast expanse of darkness.

This is one of the longest hours I've lived through. It's not even an hour, it's forty eight minutes. But it ticks by at a pace that feels like a small forever.

With a harsh blow of an airhorn, the fire system stops pumping the dusty mix, and resets itself. The lights go back on, and it's all done.

I release the catches of my mask and pull it off of me. I rush over to the infirmary. I'm not wasting time looking in through the porthole, I just touch the code that unlocks the doors. They slide open and I storm in.

They are all there, exactly as I've left them. The clock still has 3 minutes on it, they are all watching it rather than the door. So notices me and takes her mask off. She taps Martin's shoulder who releases his mask and grunts loudly as he removes it.

Jade and Helena hear him and follow suit.

They sit there and look at me, I look back at them.

Right now, right this very second, I'm just relieved they are alive. They made it through the mad plan and they are alive. _We_ are alive.

Then the reason for having this mad plan strikes me.

I try to speak but my throat is dry, so I swallow harshly and cough before asking, "Can somebody please say something?"


	6. Chapter 5: Darkness

The drive back to our cottage is silent. I study Myka for the duration and she is uneasy, distressed. The relief that pulses through me now, that invigorates me, is not showing on her. Perhaps she hasn't fully registered this ordeal is at an end. Perhaps it weighs too heavily on her. I reach my hand to her shoulder and she tenses at my touch, clenching her jaw and tightening her grip on the steering wheel.

I know that what she is feeling now is powerful, harsh and quite possibly all consuming. I know that all too well. And because I know that, I am not hurt – or phased – by her rejection. I recall the last time I sat across the console of a car from her like this, back against the door, my hands in my lap, watching her intently; we were on our way to a priory near Bath, to celebrate my birthday.

Oh, how different these feelings are to then.

Over the decade (and some) we shared with each other, I have grown to appreciate that Myka's intensity is a quality her colleagues and friends – close as they may be – do not often appreciate in her. She makes light of it with them, she even hides it from them. I had witnessed a number of occasions when things were said to her in jest (and were taken as such) that painted her ability to be absorbed so completely in a task in a somewhat negative light. And while I am well aware of how this ability can become a very negative force, I also know how positive it is. Especially in her.

Myka and I share this intensity, a talent for sustaining complete and total focus on a goal and being driven by its achievement. It is this talent, I believe, that makes us so compatible, not least because it is the source of my darkness, and the source of her success. I think of this often, how we feed off the same pool of motivation, and how – over the years – have managed to yield such drastically different results from it.

But now, observing her demeanour, I wonder whether something over the past three days changed her.

She and I had extensively discussed her understanding of my darkness over the years. She had said more than once that she believed herself to be capable of falling into it, given she was pushed hard enough. I never dismissed this notion, yet – admittedly – I always placed great faith and trust in Myka to never wander too closely to it.

I realise she had been through a lot over the past few days – over the past few hours alone. I have yet to hear her side of it, but having only observed her, and having made assumptions of what she will have faced (knowing her, knowing the team, knowing the protocols), I reckon she found herself in impossible places, making impossible decisions, taking impossible risks – none of which she will have willingly chosen to engage with.

I wonder whether all that transpired over the past three days culminates in sufficient force that would constitute her being 'pushed hard enough'.

I wonder just _how_ dark her darkness is right now.

The Rover comes to a halt outside our cottage and she remains still. I stay with her. "Do you want to talk?" I ask tentatively.

Her jaw clenches again and she closes her eyes, drawing in a deep breath and releasing it equally slowly. "I don't know if I know how to talk about it," she says eventually, her eyes focused on her hands, resting in her lap.

While relief is absent from her, exhaustion, anger and what I reckon is guilt are palpable.

After Myka finished neutralising the dust in the substation and ensured we are rid of extinct Mediterranean languages, the Warehouse team opened the gateway and sent Steve over with two junior agents in protective gear to verify the substation is safe.

Then, Vanessa arrived through the gateway with a small CDC team and Arthur. The latter debriefed (or questioned) Myka behind closed doors for the better part of three hours. During that time, Vanessa's medical team tended to the four of us, and we – taking turns – gave our statements, were debriefed and handed the substation over to Steve and the agents.

Whether purposefully orchestrated, I do not know, but it was only once all of us were congregated at the Helm that Vanessa's team passed through with the two body bags on their way to the gateway. Myka, who was leaning against the wall at the far end of the Helm, took two steps backwards, practically walking into the wall behind her as the stretchers were wheeled in. She straightened her back, crossed her hands tightly to her chest and pressed her lips shut. Her discomfort with this particular outcome, or consequence, was evident to all of us.

And yet, no one spoke to her in comfort or reassurance even though any of us would done the same as she did.

After a brief summary of the events and concluding that the investigation as to who the responsible party is still on-going, Arthur dismissed us with strict instructions to remain contactable, but rest away from the substation. Myka made sure the rest of the team had arrived at their residence safely before she allowed us to leave.

Just as she and I were heading off, Arthur grabbed hold of me and said, "take care of her."

I intend to do just that.

We sit in the car for a long while. The day outside is turning into a bright and beautiful, sunny day of late summer. Such stark contrast to our mood, to Myka's.

She is not showing signs of movement. I reach out for her hand. "Myka, darling," her left hand clenches into a tight fist under my touch. All these years after her incident, her fist still responds to stress triggers. I cannot help but worry that my touch induces stress in her, consider what could have happened that makes her react to me like this. "Come in with me." I massage the back of her fist gently with my fingers.

She nods, short sharp nods, but remains still. I get out of the car and walk around it to open her door for her. She complies and follows me into the cottage silently, her arms wrapped around her own abdomen. I close the door behind her. She is standing still in the middle of the foyer without indication of going anywhere in particular, or wanting to go anywhere in particular. She simply stands.

I place myself in front of her. She stares idly at the floor and I stare intently into her eyes. They are bloodshot and tired – three nights' worth of sleep deprivation and nearly four days' worth of stress, of loneliness – catching up with her like a speeding train.

Unlike her, who rushed to comply with every protocol and order, who rushed to chase every emerging lead in the investigation, the protocol for us, at the substation, dictated we had plenty of rest.

There was also little we could do other than find ways of busying ourselves. 'Ourselves' being a key element in our success – there were a number of us, we were together. It is exceptionally rare that I am grateful for the incessant presence of people in such close quarters, but in this case, I believe it was this presence that kept us more or less sane.

While unable to communicate beyond the most basic of needs, the varied personalities of the team transcended the need for language which gave us – each and all – great comfort: we had Jade's love of games and Martin's exuberance. We had So's care and Mac's practicality.

Our success as a team was evident in what we had achieved: we worked out the lockdown protocol without understanding half of it. We constructed an artefact neutralising air pump from scrap. We calculated air volume replacement requirements in six different mathematical paradigms.

Dangerous as this experience was, hard as it was, lonely as it felt – and odd as it is to admit – a part of me enjoyed it.

But Myka… Myka was alone. She was remotely connected to and with, clad in that plastic suit for god knows how long. She was receiving and passing orders, a slave to protocol; working as intensely as only she can to resolve the situation. Without knowing the details of her experience, I can guess there were at least three points over the past three days at which she had our lives in her hands, three times in which she made life and death decisions. These will have been decisions she made based on limited information, based on instinct, based on protocol, based on trust; with little time to process or rationalise, little time to dwell and no one with whom to share them – none of which adhere to her preference.

The neutralising protocol alone, the execution of which she shouldered on her own, amounted to a heap of risks which placed each and every one of us in danger. That is probably why she chose to partake in it: Myka will never ask anyone to risk something she wasn't willing to risk herself.

I must be honest and admit I was truly angry with her for making this choice. I was thinking, at the time, this is a pointless risk for her to take: no one would gain if she were to perish with us. Reading her note in broken Aramaic made me realise – once more – how her nobility stands in bold contradiction to my selfishness.

But this is a conversation she and I will have another time. Now, as Arthur so eloquently put, I need to take care of her.

I reach up to cradle her face with my hands. "You learn how to talk about it," I say quietly. "I learned how to talk about it," I add after some careful thought, my thumbs gently caressing her dusty cheeks.

"I don't even know where to begin," she says and her eyes lift from the floor to find mine. "How did you-" she runs out of breath. "Where did you start?"

Trust her to ask me this question. The romantic fool in me has an answer at the tip of her tongue, 'I started with you, darling'. But Myka is not interested in lip service or romancing. She needs the truth. She needs _my_ truth. Where did I start learning to talk about my darkness? What made me open up about how it felt?

Colleagues, friends and loved ones from before the bronze did not wish to engage with it. For all its wonders, glory and progress, Victorian society and its decorum did not approve of topics to which reductionism or dissection could not be applied as methods of investigation, heaven forbid of those topics were sourced in the mind or, gracious, the soul of a woman.

After the bronze, however, came a string of unfortunate events: misunderstandings, misuses and abuses of my darkness – my own included. MacPherson preyed on it; Arthur feared it, hated it even, with a passion; Myka was angry at first, then she forgave it; Pete resented it, or me, rather, and everything that came with me; Irene, Adwin and Jane saw it for what it was – a deep character flaw that is often mistreated; Other regents were less forgiving and viewed it as an criminal tendency; Lena was cautious, Claudia too; Sykes attempted to rekindle it, unsuccessfully. Nate was unaware of it and the glimpses of it he did manage to catch resulted in antagonism; every _normal_ person I had interacted with thereafter had no awareness of my past, or my darkness.

The life I attempted to lead outside the Warehouse was guided by permanent sins of omission, only to be reminded too often that one simply cannot wish such truths away, no matter how hard one tries, or how adept one is at reinventing oneself. Every attempt I had on my life or freedom since then were a stark reminder my darkness will always be there. Like a shadow. Like gravity.

So where _did_ I start? "I started with a person I trusted," I say, "when I trusted that person forgave me, when that person placed trust in me".

It is odd that sometimes the romantic fool is instinctively correct.

She falls silent for a while. "I don't feel like I need to be forgiven," she mutters through gritted teeth and drops her gaze again.

"Neither did I," I whisper back.

Her face wears a stern expression, her eyes seem dark and weary. I can recall seeing her this way only a handful of times before. She inhales deeply, stretching her neck, looking up and away from me. My hands fall to her shoulders and slide down her arms as a result of her slight and pointed moves.

I want her to know I am here for her, that I am not leaving her alone. I want her to know that I will not let her follow her survival instinct of retiring from everyone and everything around her, I am not leaving her to her own devices.

I gently pry her hands from around her and walk into the space they create. I hold them to my hips, resting my hands atop hers.

There is a long silence in which her short, sharp breaths is the only sound I hear.

"The past few days..." she starts but falls silent. "I'm scared of what they've done to me. I'm scared of what I'm becoming," she says quietly, her jaw still tightly clenched. "All this…," she is searching for words, attempting to match phrases to feelings, "mortal danger…," she tries to take a deep breath but it catches in her throat, "is ruining me," she struggles to finish the thought. "It's ruined me already," she wells up, "I don't like who it turned me into," she whispers and wraps her hands around my waist, pulling me to her. My arms wrap around her, palms resting at the small of her back. I can feel how tense her muscles are, how tightly wound she is – even through the layers of clothing she has on. She leans her forehead against mine. "I want to stop," she whispers. "I want it all to just stop," she runs out of breath before she finishes.

This very moment, as she stands in front of me, lackluster and short of breath, she feels as though she is lost. I understand how she feels. I felt it too – a cold and gloomy emptiness, a vacuum in which there is nothing. No one.

I know the importance of this feeling, though, for it is followed by the want – nay – the _need_ to be found again.

Yet, Myka feels so far away from me that I cannot reconcile that distance with the heat of her body against my hands, the softness of her breath against my lips, the pressure of her forehead against my own. Because she is _right here_ , so close, and I am suddenly, and painfully, reminded of how much I had missed her. How much I miss her, still.

Her breaths are flat and small, long seconds between one and another, as if she is willing herself to not breathe. "I need to give in, Helena," she speaks, with the last remains of a shallow breath. "I need to give in to _you_ ," her eyes burn into mine with a simple request. "Please."

I nod gently, acknowledging her plea.

I peel her hands from me so I can divest her of her jacket. It's an old leather jacket of mine, tan coloured. It is not soft anymore, it is hardened with water and dust and mud, I can feel how dry it is, badly scratched and scraped, as my fingers travel up her front and to her shoulders. I tuck my hands under it, lift the jacket from her and push it outwards and back. It slips off of her and lands at her feet with a soft thud.

I take both her hands in mine and guide her up the stairs to the bathroom. I stand her in the middle of the room and step away from her for a moment, to measure her, gauge her. Top of her head to the tips of her toes and back again.

Her hair is mussed, strands stuck to her forehead with dried sweat. Her eyes are red and sunken, crows' feet more visible in the soft light, grime collected in them. Her nostrils flare lightly with every shallow breath she takes in, lips pursed together, teeth grinding on inhale and releasing on exhale. Her chin – stern. The tension in her jaw gives the illusion that her face is angular.

The strain of her muscles is visible in her neck. The usual smooth and regal column is flanked by stiff lines of stretched tendons that accentuate her collarbones and the hollows above them. The collar of the white top she is wearing is practically brown with grit and sweat; it jots proudly, stiff, where her neck meets her shoulders. The top itself is sullied with faint marks of moss and mud. It appears to be stuck to her left side, tucked – uncomfortably, I could only imagine – under her right arm and breast, pulled up slightly above the waistline of her trousers.

Her hands are limp at her sides, their skin hard with dehydration and dust, dirt stuck around and under her short fingernails. I have never seen Myka's hands so still. They hang lifelessly by her thighs, bearing a non-human grey-ish tint that blends with the dark grey material of her trousers.

Those are marred with ash and sandstone residue. There is a tear, just below her left knee, a few inches above where her boots tightly hug her calves, faint blood stains mark the frayed edges of the fabric.

The middle fastening of her right boot is torn off – I cannot imagine the sheer force it would take to tear leather like this. Her black boots are no longer black. They are richly dashed with scores and scrapes outlined with light edges, testament to what they have gone through.

"Take off your boots," I order quietly, and she complies with no hesitation. She doubles over, legs straight, unfastening three straps of the left boot, two on the right. Then she straightens; nudges the heel of her left boot with the toes of her right, then shakes it loose until it lands on the floor. She then pulls her foot out like a magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat. She repeats the process with her other foot. All the while her tired eyes not leaving mine.

I turn on the hot water in the shower and the room fills up with vapour. Standing in our bathroom, in the humid heat of a clean room, the past few days feel considerably longer than they had been. It is only now that I am finally beginning to feel _better_.

Myka inhales the damp air, allowing her eyes to fall shut and rest. I unbutton her top and walk around her, reaching for the hardened collar to pull it off her, gently prying it from where it had caught under her bra on her right side.

I trail my fingers lightly across the high ridges of her shoulders, sand and small pieces of branches falling from skin. _She_ is the artefact now. I trace the outlines of her biceps down to her elbows. I can feel and see her muscles straining under her skin. I press my palms to the outskirts of her ribs and up to where her bra is digging into her sides.

Oh, how I've missed her, my Myka. I cannot resist the need to press my lips to her shoulder blade. The muscles in her back flex and the metallic and salty taste of earth and sweat on her skin lingers on my lips.

I walk around to face her and drag my hands up hers, to her shoulders and down her chest, searching for signs of injury. She bears few marks: a bruise at the top of her left arm; one above her right elbow. That's all.

I walk into her space again, my palms at her waist, up her sides and to her front – all the way around and back again. My touch is too purposeful to be considered gentle, and although it is placed lovingly, it is not sympathetic: I am checking for cracked or broken bones. She stretches her back and pulls her shoulders and chin up, allowing me better access for a thorough search. Once I am satisfied she is not hurt, I lean into her with an embrace, resting my head against her chest.

It is clear to me and I hope it is clear to her as well that I am no longer assessing my colleague. I am holding my Myka who has been through more than I know. More than I dare imagine.

 _It is early morning. Early enough to still be considered late last night. We are in a car park of a supermarket in a small town outside Boston, Massachusetts. Myka had just incapacitated three goons and beat their leader into an unconscious pulp._

 _Once they are down, she breaks into the van in which they hold me. She wrenches open the loading door at the back of the van, holding her gun and flashlight up while scanning the inside of the small and rather empty space. There is nothing in it but me._

 _I feel a hint of relief at the sight of her, but it is just out of my grasp; like a scent of something scrumptious baking some distance away, but I cannot imagine its taste yet._

 _She presses her index finger to her lips, motioning to me to keep silent and still. She inches towards the van, so she can take a better look inside it, but doesn't climb in. She meets my eyes again and repeats her motion, nodding to me, seeking my understanding. I nod back at her._

 _She walks around the van, small, cautious steps. I can track her flashlight as it scans the outside of the van. Then the light disappears and I can hear light rattling underneath me. She is inspecting the undercarriage._

 _She is thorough in her work._

 _She comes back around to the door, only her flashlight in her hand now. She climbs into the van, crouches in front of me and places the flashlight in her mouth. I am the subject of her thorough inspection now: hands in my hair, checking my head for trauma; thumbs and fingers across my cheekbones and brows, gently along my left temple, where I was struck._

 _Her face softens as she runs her fingers across the thick tape covering my mouth and she reaches its sharp edges. She takes the flashlight out of her mouth and whispers "sorry" to me and I close my eyes and nod my approval for her to rip it off. Her fingertips chase the pain, replacing it with a light tingling sensation._

 _"_ _Thank you," I say quietly, my throat dry and voice cracking._

 _"_ _Coast is clear, cops're on the way," she presses her hands against me, using light yet persistent pressure to check my upper body and limbs for harm. "How are your legs?" She reaches behind my back, feeling for the Scotland Yard issued cuffs in which my hands are bound. She shuffles behind me, to gain a better angle at them and starts fiddling with their lock._

 _"_ _Being folded uncomfortably against an unforgiving metal surface for the better part of fifteen hours…"_

 _She angles a look at me. That's her way to ask me for a simple, honest answer._

 _"_ _Nothing a good stretch and a stiff drink won't fix," I summarise as I hear a click and feel blood easing its way back to my hands. I clench and un-clench my fists to hasten the circulation to my extremities. She wraps her hands around mine, stilling them for a moment so she can remove the restraint from me. She shuffles back around me and gives my arm a quick squeeze on her way out of the van. I follow her with some difficulty as my legs take a little while to regain a full range of motion._

 _By the time I climb out of the van, Myka is about twenty feet away from it, scanning the car park and its perimeter diligently, hand on her holstered gun. I can hear sirens in the distance. I walk towards her and she turns to face me just as I am an arm's length from her._

 _Her eyes are sparkling in the orange lights as she smiles. I am seeing Myka now, not Agent Bering. "Hey," she places both her hands on my shoulders, giving them a gentle rub. "Are you okay?"_

 _Frankly, I am not okay. I've been drugged, kidnapped, struck and bound, threatened, approached and touched by creatures unfit to be categorised as humans in ways I care not to remember. Every time one of those men got close to me, touched me with a hand or a weapon, I could feel being nudged further into darkness. Oh, the plans I hatched in my mind to escape and maim or kill them have been all I could focus on over the past few hours. Had Myka not arrived when she did, I would have probably resorted to putting one of them to use._

 _But the fact she is here, acknowledging me, makes the experiences of the day feel lighter. Not gone altogether, but manageable. I nod stiffly as three police cars and two ambulances race into the car park, circling us and the van._

 _"_ _It's up to you how you want to play it with them," she instructs me, "but I would like to have the truth from you later."_

 _"_ _Thank you," I whisper._

 _"_ _I'm just your security detail. Your bodyguard. I followed your GPS here," she says as Police men and women flood the scene, securing it; Paramedics get their gear out, running towards us._

 _"_ _Not a word of a lie there," I acknowledge her statement and she gives my shoulders another squeeze the moment a paramedic and a police officer flank us._

 _"_ _Which one of you is Bering?" The officer asks sternly._

 _Myka flashes her Secret Service badge and walks off with the officer, leaving me to the graces of the paramedic who treats the scrape on my forehead and a female officer who questions me about what had happened._

 _Not much later, after statements and evidence were collected from us both, and not least because of Myka's assurance to the local police that I will be available and contactable through her at all times, we leave the scene and head off to a hotel._

 _It is a different kind of hotel to the places we usually occupy: an upmarket boutique hotel along the banks of the Charles River, overlooking downtown Cambridge and on – onto Boston. We are facing each other in the tastefully decorated room, first rays of sunrise creeping in through a patterned curtain._

 _I am still stiff with thoughts of executing revenge on the men who abducted me. My darkness has crept within me throughout the day, occupied my mind while being held hostage for what turns out to be a case of mistaken identity. I am finding it hard to subdue the anger and pain, to subdue the darkness._

 _She is holding my hands in hers, her thumbs tracing gentle circles at the inside my wrists._

 _"_ _I would have killed them," I declare confidently, threateningly. "I would have killed them in horrible ways if you hadn't turned up when you did."_

 _"_ _But you didn't." She reassures me._

 _"_ _Put me close enough to one of them now and I shall," I hiss._

 _"_ _Put me close enough to one of them now and I may do the same," she speaks quietly._

 _I look at her, weighing her statement carefully._

 _"_ _Let me help," she says and her hands drift to my thighs as she settles on her knees and leans back on her heels in front of me. She reaches for the zips at the backs of my boots and pulls them down. She then takes my right hand and places it on her left shoulder; coaxes me to lift my right foot so she can pull the heeled boot off. She places my foot on her thigh and begins massaging my calf muscle and shin, encouraging muscle movement and blood flow._

 _I can feel my breathing beginning to ease, and my stiffness leaving my shoulders and neck – as if she is siphoning anger and pain out of me with her firm, insistent movement. After a while she replaces my foot, and swaps my hands on her shoulders. She does the same to my left foot and leg, and as she rubs the darkness out of me, I begin to recount the day to her in as much detail as I can._

 _I pause after I recall the first time one of the goons attempted to force himself on me, to collect my thoughts and let go of the memory of his coarse breath, touch and language. She replaces my foot on the floor, straightens herself and holds me, pressed against me, on her knees, her head against my belly. I continue telling her about them – everything about them – but also about me. What I was feeling, what I was thinking, what I was planning._

 _All the while, she is on her knees, holding on to me, not letting go, not moving._

 _"_ _And then you turn up," I place my hand at the top of her head, "saving me from myself as much as you saved me from them."_

 _Her hands shift behind me, restlessly caressing the small of my back over my jacket. She wants to say something, but is holding back. I spin one of her curls around my finger, waiting for her to find a way to say what's on her mind._

 _"_ _Saving you from them is my job," she starts and looks up at me, "saving you from yourself – that's all you. I take no credit," she pauses. "I'm sorry it took me so long to get to you," she says._

 _"_ _Nonsense, darling," I do my best to reassure her. "I know you got there as fast as you could." And I know she did._

 _"_ _Thank you for telling me," she says, still on her knees, in front of me._

 _"_ _Thank you for forgiving me," I answer._

Oh, Myka. I missed you so.

For a while she does nothing but stand in my embrace and breathe, albeit a little too slowly. I can feel the muscles of her left hand contracting violently, it's her fist again. She raises her right hand and rests it across my lower back. Tentatively at first, but then she commits to the embrace and I can feel her shifting her weight and leaning into me.

As she returns my touch I feel reassured, even though I know that has she, indeed, stepped into her darkness. I know there is little I may demand of her. It is her, and only her, who could start the journey to be found. All I can do for her is remain steady and within reach.

I press my lips to her chest gently and look up, along her shoulder, up her neck, along her jaw, across her cheek to her eyes. The tension has lessened. Her eyes are closed. I whisper her name, and she opens them. "I would like you to finish undressing," I speak.

She takes a step back and removes her socks, a small piece of rock falls rather loudly onto the slate floor. Next, she unbuttons her trousers and shakes them off of her. As she straightens, I can see that her left knee is grazed and muddied, evidence of the chase up the mountain.

Then, she unhooks her bra. She winces as she peels it off of her skin, leaving deep tracks where it had dug into her flesh over the past three days. Lastly – her pants.

"Step in," I motion towards the shower.

She obeys and walks in to stand under the hot water. I undress and follow her in, reaching with my hands to her shoulders, sweeping down them gently, washing off dirt, angst and trepidation. I wash her fastidiously, with great care and attention, lathering every crevice, touching every recess.

My touch is functional and assertive like before, but softer, caring. Yet, it is not sensual. It is not exciting. I take no pleasure in it, for no reason other than this touch is not mine to enjoy. She gives in, and I take what she gives.

I walk around her and wash her front with every bit of diligence as I had her back. Her left hand is still fisted tightly and I pick it up, pushing my thumb inside it and rubbing – harshly – under the hot water. She winces at the pain, biting on her lips. For a moment, her fist clenches even tighter, but then it relents.

I then wash her hair – probably the most difficult task – not only because of the height difference between us, but because her hair is thoroughly tangled and matted. I place her directly under the shower head for the water to work the knots from her hair and back.

For the first time in four days I hear her sigh in relief.

I wash myself quickly and head out of the shower, beckoning her to me, wrapping her up in a towel as she steps out before wrapping myself in one.

I am facing her again, measuring her – tip to toe – again. She looks less dishevelled, but no less exhausted. She looks less angry, but no less anxious. Her breathing is more even, her muscles more relaxed, but still a ways away from her usual pace.

"Follow me," I say and walk to our bedroom, where I turn down her side of the bed, waiting for her beside it. She walks into the room and I motion with my head to the bed. She removes the towel from her, folds it in half and places it across her pillow. She sits down, shoulders slumped, hands limp in her lap. After a moment she turns slightly, tucks her legs under the duvet and lays back pulling the duvet onto her.

On my way around the bed, I switch off the lights and draw the curtains shut. I climb into bed and curl against her – my head on her shoulder, my palm atop her abdomen, my shin touching hers. "I missed you so," I whisper into her skin and press a light kiss.

She inhales sharply and releases her breath slowly. "Helena," she whispers, "I give in."

"You have," I contemplate her insistence on using this specific phrase. I wonder if she had crossed a line from which there is no return. I contemplate which line it may be for her, as that may mean it isn't forgiveness she seeks, but penance. Or absolution. "And you will," I speak against her softly, "but for now you rest."

I fight my own tiredness to ensure she falls asleep. While I wait for her breathing to even out, I consider forgiveness, penance and absolution. I reflect on my time with her: I repented for my transgressions. Myka forgives me, but I struggle to forgive myself. Absolving me of them, is – perhaps – my responsibility, and mine alone.

Soon her breathing falls into a familiar pattern, sleep descending upon her like heavy snow, enveloping her completely. For a long hour I lay against her, contemplating my darkness, my penance, my absolution. All the while she is still.

Eventually, I drift off as well.

I wake up a few hours later when I hear a vehicle on the drive. I hear Steve's voice, then Arthur's. I raise my head slightly to check - Myka hasn't moved. She is rested in the exact same position in which she fell asleep.

I press a light kiss to her shoulder and slink out of bed without making a sound. I don a dressing gown, closing the door behind me and head downstairs to greet them before they knock on the door or – heaven forbid – ring the doorbell.

I get to the door and usher them into the kitchen. Steve is taking the long way around, peering into Myka's office. He doesn't linger and follows us in.

"Myka is asleep. She only went down a few hours ago," I say, hushed. "Care for a drink?"

"Tea," Steve smiles an appeasing smile.

"The same," Arthur nods and smiles. There is something different about him. He appears to be amicable, somehow. He wears it awkwardly.

I put the kettle on, bring out a teapot and look for mugs – there are none in the cupboards.

"Myka was drinking a lot of coffee," Steve says.

I smile at him. Of course she did. "I will be right back". I walk across the foyer and into her office. I am standing in the doorway, not able to or not willing to step inside. It looks like a war had been fought in that room, with no clear victors. A small grin blossoms across my lips as I take a brave step inside.

I realise Myka had been through a lot, but not even in my wildest dreams, had I ever imagined her to be capable of producing such incomparable mess.

I scan the room and manage to locate a few mugs here and there. As I walk around to collect them my attention falls on evidence of her research: history books and references for the Tower of Babel myth; alphabets, syntax and glossaries for dead languages of the Mediterranean; stills from surveillance footage, logs from the locator system for the hours preceding the artefact activation. She cross referenced any data she could allay her hands on – I admire her resourcefulness and sharp thinking – her analysis establishes the precise location of each team member.

She checked which access codes were used across the substation to look for suspects: she highlighted some codes that, as I understand in the brief moment my look is cast on her printouts, had been used in the vicinity of the systems that were breached in order to disperse and activate the dust. There are only three access codes highlighted: Karl's, Jade's and mine.

The small grin I grew in affection of Myka's mayhem fades from my lips faster than a midwinter sunset. I feel as though a dark cloud descends on me in a single moment. I had been a suspect. I may still be considered one. In their minds, in Myka's mind, I am capable of doing this.

To be fair, I decide to apply cold logic for a moment, if capability were the guiding principle, then, yes – I am most certainly capable of carrying such a plot out. I have the technical ability, I have the Warehouse knowledge, I am intimately familiar with the substation's mechanisms so to create a menace that would penetrate them.

Last but not least – I've carried out a plot of similar complexity in the past.

As I consider my capability, I spend a moment placing myself in their shoes. If I were a battle-worn, hardened and aging supervisory agent who refuses to retire, I would probably suspect me, too. One may never know when darkness creeps into another's heart.

And if I were in Myka's shoes? I take a deep breath to briefly let go of the hurt. Myka, a seasoned agent with impeachable ethics, on an unwavering quest for the truth, would search for evidence to guide her towards a suspect. I look down at my code, marked by a green highlighter, a shred of evidence uncovered. While I can't imagine this was easy for her, I can't help but wonder how quickly the highlighter skimmed the page over the alphanumeric sequence that points to me. I brush the tip of my finger across it, as if the touch will evoke the memory of the page being kissed by a highlighter; and I feel for her.

I marvel ever so slightly at my own nobility. It so rarely takes solid form in me. I so rarely grant others the benefit of the doubt. Even Myka, if I'm perfectly honest. So – for the time being, I choose to focus on the fact that there are other names on that list; and I know too little at this point to reach rash conclusions as to how highly I rank in the team's suspect pool, or, alternatively, how low I rank in the list of colleagues who lack scruples.

I pick up another mug and make my way back to the kitchen.

The kettle finishes boiling just as I finish washing three mugs for us to use, and I tend to the tea. Brewing loose leaf tea is a relaxing art and I find that the scent of tea and sugar have an immensely positive effect on my state of mind. I have _almost_ let go of the fact I was suspected of being a villain. Again.

I place the three mugs on the counter along with some milk and pour freshly brewed tea into them. They each pick a mug and for a long while we simply sip tea. My eyes dart between them, trying to fathom why they are here, as they are giving me no clues.

"It's not Myka we came to see," Arthur finally speaks as he fidgets with his now empty mug.

"Oh?" I raise my eyebrows. The benefit of the doubt slips away with my nobility as it loses its form, reverting back to its natural, fleeting, gaseous state. I can feel a distant, animalistic part of me is awakened, stretching in preparation for a fight or flight instruction. I try to soothe that beast, calm it.

He clears his throat. "I don't know how much Myka told you."

"Myka told me nothing," I overturn his assumption.

"We realised fairly early on that somebody here did it," he speaks quietly. "We narrowed down a suspect pool and you were in it."

Never had vindication carried such a bitter taste. I nod stiffly at him.

He looks up from his mug. "Some of the evidence pointed at you and we," he stops abruptly, " _I_ followed them very aggressively," he says, but then his face softens. His expression turns loving, it is one I have never seen him give anyone but Claudia. The last time _that_ happened was before she turned 20. "You were being framed, HG, and I'm sorry that I didn't trust you, against my better judgement."

What evidence was this? What does 'very aggressively' mean? How far did this investigation go? What orders were dispatched while I was at the top of the suspect list? How much of this did Myka know? How much did she know and not tell me? Who would frame me? Why?

Questions race through me at a much faster pace than I'm able to recall, and then they stop. They cease as suddenly as wind dies down in the eye of a storm, when I realise that this is why Myka gave in. Myka gave in to me, laying herself as sacrifice, this is the sin for which she seeks absolution.

I remain silent for a moment, recalling phrases Myka used earlier today: being ruined, disliking what she's turned into, wanting to stop. I had assumed she was referring to her actions when managing the crisis, only I didn't realise these included investigating me. Suspecting me. Losing her trust in me.

"Myka wasn't part of the investigation," Steve adds. "She…" he pauses "we thought it would be best if she focused on dealing with what was going on here," it is rare that I wish I had his talent for telling whether people are lying. Now is one of those rare moments. "She didn't know who we were investigating or how. She still doesn't know the details."

"I'm really sorry, Helena," Arthur says again. "Truly and deeply sorry." He looks me straight in the eye as he says these words, speaks them with such honesty.

Arthur has never apologised to me before. Never like this. So explicitly, so heartfelt. His apology is so sincere, it places a small, niggling thought in me: he must have well and truly suspected me as the culprit for him to be well and truly sorry for having been wrong.

As this niggling thought rises through me, it echoes old thoughts within, thoughts and feelings that made so much sense when I left the Warehouse over a decade ago, but have not made sense since. Namely, the realisation that trust – the strong, unmovable foundation upon which relationships lay – can crack so easily in spite of its robustness and bulk, shatters something in me, again.

This is why I left the Warehouse for Boone, for a quest for a normal, suburban life. This was the reasoning that convinced me my place is outside the world of Endless Wonder: because to those within this wondrous world – irrespective of time gone by or sacrifices made – I will always remain a suspect, a potential villain whose darkness is too close for comfort.

The beast within shakes its mane, paces impatiently, waiting for an opportunity to flee.

I smile at the both of them, softly. "Thank you," I say demurely then look at Arthur. His face full of regret. "I appreciate your honesty and accept your apology," and then I fall silent.

The niggling thought – the fact I had been so seriously considered to be the offender – tugs at my consciousness like a hungry child, begging to be fed with attention. With anger. I will only be able to withstand it for so long.

Steve shifts uncomfortably in his seat and clears his throat after a few moments of tense silence. I do not look at him, but rather, keep my eyes fixed on Arthur.

I try to ignore the beast and the hungry child, pretend they are not there. I am not sure what I should do next, so I try to consider what others I know would do in my stead. This is, however, unexplored territory, new grounds we are yet to cover. I have no evidence of how others would respond in a case such as this. This holds true to everyone involved: those at the substation, those in South Dakota, those in this house.

/ /

I open my eyes and sit up, startled. I shouldn't be asleep, there is still so much to do. My brain kicks in and fast forwards through what I remember.

At the same time, I'm trying to understand where I am, exactly.

This is our bedroom. How am I in our bedroom?

Then my consciousness catches up, and I remember that the whole thing is over now.

I ease back down into the bed and try to take a deep breath in or out, but the best I can do are short and shallow ones. Somehow, in the ten seconds of panicked brain work, my body became hyper alert, tense and rigid.

I try to relax myself. I change my breathing, change my position. I go through every trick I can think of, but nothing works. I'm just too worked up now to be able to relax, and – god – I just need to go back to sleep.

I close my eyes and try to convince myself, with a lilting, soothing voice, "go to sleep, Myka, it's fine. You can go to sleep," and I try to breathe in again, but I can't, not all the way, and I cough.

I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. I've never been one for counting sheep, but there is always a first time. I picture one of the meadows nearby, it's a big field between our cottage and the substation. In the spring it was littered with sheep. I could count them from the top of the substation's mountain, right next to where…

And like that, the sense of calm vanishes from the image. The meadow dissolves and is replaced with Karl holding a gun to Mac's head, a second before he tapped his trigger.

My breath catches and I cough again.

I try to empty my mind, but I can't. That second is looping in my head, over and over and over. I turn to my side, and start describing everything in my field of vision to take my mind out of the loop: the bedroom door, stained pine, a dark colour because I liked the contrast to the light walls. My bathrobe is hanging off the back of it, it appears to be teal, but that's because it's been washed so many times. It used to be purple. Helena's dressing gown is not there, so there is an empty brass hook, mock Victorian, grossly overpriced at a County Fair. There's the dresser, an Ikea thing that Helena made into a one-of-a-kind piece by building it differently to the instructions. There's a pile of folded clean laundry on top of it. I can pick out the luminescent lycra of my running gear.

A run.

A run would unwind me. But just at the thought of it, my calf muscle cramps. Hard. It's like my body is responding to the ridiculousness of the idea of running now. I hiss and curse and curl up to massage my leg. This pain is really intense. It takes it a few minutes and it relaxes enough for me to straighten out.

I turn over to the other side, facing Helena's side of the bed.

That's a good point: where _is_ Helena? I listen to the house for a few minutes, but it's silent. There is no sound whatsoever.

It makes me a little bit worried. I don't think I was very coherent when we got home earlier, I don't know what she made of it. I remember standing downstairs, in the foyer, telling her I'd had enough of being in danger, apologising for doubting her, apologising for killing Mac and Karl.

On second thought, as I recall fragments of the actual conversation we had, I'm not sure that's how it came out. My breath shortens even more at the thought of fucking everything up so royally.

I arch my back and stretch my neck, they both crack loudly. The mild relief doesn't last for long, because everything seizes up again. It feels like the cramp from my leg is travelling through me. The little air I release from my lungs comes out as a groan.

I close my eyes and focus on my sharp breaths. There must be something I can do to release the tension. If not a run, there is only one other thing that will unwind me, even though I'm in the completely wrong frame of mind for it. But seeing as running is out of the question…

I grumble into my pillow and turn over. I'm on my back, one hand under my head, the other across my abdomen. I close my eyes and think up an image of Helena: her mouth open slightly, teeth snaring her bottom lip, eyes screwed shut, dark hair ripples on either side of her face. Her eyes snap open suddenly and they are deep and brown and full of want.

This is from Bath, the evening of her birthday party. I can work with this. I close my eyes and think of the details in this image of her: the slight crease between her eyebrows, strain showing across her face. Her triceps are quivering a little as she's holding herself above me. Tiny beads of sweat forming on her chest, glistening in the soft light. They are shiny and bright, an opposite to her dark freckles.

My hand travels down my abdomen in small, gentle, circular motions and I take a breath – it isn't deep enough for me to really appreciate the sensation that passes through me but it's good enough. It's working, I can feel it.

I just need to keep thinking about that image: her chest rises and falls quickly, she bites her lip again and lifts her head. Her hair is pushed back, over her shoulders. I map the constellations of freckles on her neck.

I reach my sex and start working myself up, slow and light. I think it's working so I tighten my movements. I'm getting close.

But it's not working.

The image is gone from my mind, and is replaced with 'what happened?' and 'what now?' and 'what have I done?' and 'what next?'. It isn't the substation I'm thinking about. Or the Warehouse. It's Helena and me.

I betrayed her trust. I betrayed my trust in her. I thought I was better than this, I thought I forgave her everything. I _did_ forgive her everything. I love her, for Christ's sake. How could I have done that to her, to suspect her like I did?

I suspected her because she was there, and they were all suspects, and that was the right thing to do, it was _protocol_. I suspected her because there was evidence. I suspected her because she could do it. I suspected her because I knew the guys in South Dakota would do, too.

Even though it makes sense, none of these are good enough to excuse how bad I feel about it. None of these are good enough to excuse my betrayal because underneath all this, behind all the suspicions and suppositions and evidence, even, I don't believe she could do this. I trust her with my life.

I trust her implicitly.

But it's not helping. I try to relax myself through my breathing again, but it's like my ribs are tied and I can't expand my chest cavity. I shift in the bed, so my head is against Helena's pillows. I can smell her on them. I can do this.

Think of another image, Myka, I convince myself, you have hundreds of these.

I close my eyes again, already touching myself. This time, Helena's eyes are a couple of inches away from mine. They are a deep, dark, warm brown. Her irises are crossed with lighter lines, like bicycle spokes, in alternating shades of chocolate brown and hazel. Her eyes are smiling, she is relaxed and contented.

My, Helena, you are so breathtakingly beautiful.

I recall the taste of her lips, because that's what happened next after that image was seared into my memory. I wet mine and bite down on them.

I'm close. I'm so so close.

/ /

"More tea?" is all I can say after a few more minutes of a tense silence.

Arthur smiles uncomfortably. Steve purses his lips.

The silence is stirred by a light creak from the floorboards upstairs. Myka must be up. Steve straightens in his seat, rubbing his hands against his knees, trying to catch Arthur's attention.

Arthur is somewhat oblivious of Steve's effort at subtlety, until Steve gives up altogether and places a hand on his shoulder. "Artie," he says softly.

Arthur is shaken by the touch and mutters as he gets up. I stay still, looking at them make their way out of the kitchen. After they leave the room I let my shoulders slump and run my hands through my hair, shaking off the paralytic cobwebs of doubt that have taken hold of me during this most silent of conversations.

I head out of the kitchen to reach them in time to see them out the door. Arthur turns around again and looks at me. "I'm so sorry, Helena," he says.

I smile what I can only hope is a soft smile and nod at him.

Steve braces my shoulder with smile, which I return. "I'll call you tomorrow," he mouths after Arthur walks out.

I lock the door behind them and think about doubt and the cobwebs she weaves around me so artfully. I can feel her hard at work again, her poisonous web digs deeper into me.

I wonder what it felt like for Myka, when she realised that I am to be considered a wrongdoer in this? Was she the one who suggested it? I think about her ruin, as she put it. About her submission. About her need to be absolved.

The floor upstairs creaks again and I go to check on her.

/ /

It's not working. Why isn't working?

I'm so close, I'm so _so_ close, I've been _so_ close for _so_ long.

Why can't I ––– I'm jolted into the room by the sensation of a weight on top of my hand over the covers. My eyes, that were tightly shut for god knows how long take a second to adjust. It's Helena. She's sitting next to me, on my side of the bed, leaning over me with her hand over the covers, directly over my hand that's... Not. Not touching anymore.

She is looking into my eyes, her face is expressionless. I honestly don't know if she is angry or hurt or happy or what. She brings her right hand to my face and caresses it softly. She leans in for a kiss. It feels chaste and cool and distant. Then her hand travels up to find my left that's just above my head, on her pillows. She laces her fingers with mine and presses her weight into me.

"You gave in," she whispers against my lips.

I nod. My short, restrained breaths coming out as wheezes.

"You gave in to me," her whisper is harsh. Her eyes are looking into me with a fierceness I haven't seen in her in a very long time. It looks like fear.

I nod again and try to reach up to kiss her, but she pulls back just enough for me to fall an inch short.

"You gave in," she says coldly and looks at my lips, "so you are _mine_ ," she takes my bottom lip in her teeth and bites down. It's too hard to be seductive – she is giving me pain. She pulls until I wince, then releases it and runs her tongue over where her teeth dug in.

I gasp and hold my breath. I can't release it even though I try. I can't think of anything to say to release it with. The only thing that runs through my mind now is that I need to breathe. The way she leans over me makes breathing even harder.

Her eyes remain fixed into mine, expressionless, distant, fearful. I have no idea what made her feel this way. I don't know where she's been, who she's seen, what she knows now that she didn't know a few hours ago. There is _something_ , though. I just don't know what. I don't think I've ever seen Helena like this.

Her left hand creeps under the covers and pulls mine away. "You are mine, Myka Bering," she whispers and replaces my hand with hers, then leans in closer, harder into me.

I stretch to try and reach her again, but she pulls back.

"I am not yours to kiss," she speaks, her tone is unlike anything I had ever heard from her. It's muted and cold. "I am not yours to touch," she tightens the grip of her fingers on my left hand that's over my head.

It hurts. "Helena, you're hu—"

"You gave in," she cuts into me, and leans in for a kiss. It's hard and bruising and long. She breaks away for a deep breath. "I can absolve you of your sin," she whispers as the fingers of her left hand slip over me, pointedly.

I gasp and hold on to the tiny breath I managed to take in, unable to release it.

She moves slowly, brushing her fingers along the length of me with a touch only _she_ knows to give. "I can undo your ruin," she speaks into my lips.

I can't breathe. I could barely breathe before, but it feels like I can't breathe at all when she's pushing into me like that, when she's touching me like that. "Helena…" I try to say, but it's barely a whisper.

"Your ruin," she says, her strokes are long and slow, like she's making a point that I feel her everywhere, "is mine," she presses into the top of my sex. "Your absolution," she pushes back down, "is mine". I try to breathe in again, but I can only gasp. "Your penance," my whole body is tense. I thought it was tense before, but now I feel like I'm entirely solid, "is mine." Pain starts to pulse through me and it increases with every heartbeat. "The whole of you," she slows even more and every single one of my muscles cramps, "is mine," I release the last of my breath in agony, because it hurts.

Everything hurts. Everywhere hurts. It hurts _so_ much.

It hurts like that – more pain than I've ever known – until I break. I break into a million pieces, and it's like whatever was keeping me tied just disappears and I can breathe again. It feels like I've come up for air after being under water for too long.

She lets me take one long, deep breath and she pushes in, pressing into my abdomen and chest, forcing me to exhale, and she kisses me, hard and long and searching.

She made me breathe just so she could take it away.

She doesn't ease off until I well up, until I'm shaking. And when she does, she stays close, but she's not pushing against me anymore. She's not hurting me.

I can breathe again, freely, unrestricted, and I start crying. For no reason, or for a thousand reasons.

Her right hand lets go of my hand and she pulls her left out, placing it over the covers, around where my waist is. The tip of her nose touches mine and I feel her tears streaming down it. I look up at her through my tears and wait for her to open her eyes.

She does, after a long while, after she stops crying.

"I need you to tell me," is what she asks of me.

So I do. I tell her without holding back a single thing. I tell her every detail, every thought, every feeling. Every minute facial expression I observed, every change in tone of voice. I take her through the whole thing, from beginning to end. The whole time she is resting on top of me, not moving, and not actually touching me either, the covers keep us apart.

I tell her about checking in with everyone right from the get go. I tell her how quickly we think this is an inside job. I tell her about realising the infection is internal. I tell her about narrowing the suspect pool. I tell her about the timeline and the locator logs. I tell her about Dr. Calder's orders and my decision. I tell her about designing the solutions. I tell her about the mountain. I tell her about decontamination.

I tell her about Artie debriefing me afterwards. I tell her it started with giving him a full report, and how it turned into an interrogation, almost, him asking me about what I knew, what I had noticed. I tell her he then spent quite a bit of time asking me about her, how she's been, what she's been up to, what and who she's been involved with.

I tell her that after all his questions Artie tells me she and Karl are the prime suspects. I tell her what he told me, that there is a lot of obvious evidence mostly pointing at her, but some – less obvious stuff – pointing at Karl. I tell her that I don't know what those are, that I haven't seen anything. I tell her that through the whole thing I was quiet. I tell her that I wasn't surprised, that I didn't challenge anything.

Then I stop.

She is quiet for a long time.

"How do you know it wasn't me?" she asks quietly.

"I don't," I answer without even thinking.

"Why do you trust me with all this, then?"

I trust you, Helena, because I always have. I trust you because that's what you and I had agreed we'd do. I also trust you because it's the most logical thing to do and because the alternative is too painful. "I just do," is all I wind up saying.

"Would you still trust me if I told you that not a half hour ago I was contemplating the practicalities of leaving?" she sounds like she did before, when she sat down next to me, fearful and empty.

Her words feel like a sharp scratch, like having a blade to my skin, not hard enough to cut through skin, but hard enough to feel a jagged, icy edge. "What do you mean 'leaving'?"

She sighs heavily and moves off of me. She curls up against my side, places her head on my chest.

"I don't want to leave, Myka," she says once she is settled, "but this is not good for me. This is not good for you." Fear seems to have left her voice. It's replaced with concern.

We've been through conversations like this before, but not for a long time. Well, we kind of did in Bath, before I took the job, before she decided to come back. There is a big part of me that wants to say 'I told you so', because having a conversation about her leaving is exactly the kind of thing I was worried about back then. I'm sure that one day this specific 'I told you so' will come out, but for now, I need to understand exactly what makes her say all this. "Helena," I run my fingers through her hair, "I need _you_ to tell me now."

"Arthur was here earlier," she pauses. "He came here to apologise."

I think I can guess, but I want to be sure. "What for?"

"Apparently, as you were told, I was at the top of the suspect list for quite some time," she answers.

I acknowledge her statement with a thoughtful hum.

"Was I at the top of yours?" is her next question.

Never one to be beating around the bush. "Not at the top," I say quietly and think very carefully about what I should and shouldn't be saying next. I opt for full disclosure. "But I had to consider you. It hurt. It was confusing. It was really hard," I say with long pauses in between. It all feels very raw. I can still feel it.

"Myka," she lifts her head and looks into my eyes, "making you question your ethics and weighing them against your loyalty to me is quite possibly the last thing I would like to induce in you."

Loyalty? Is that what it is? Is she shying away from 'love'? Whichever it was, or perceived, I won't lie to her. Doubting her was one of the hardest things I had to do over the past few days. One of the hardest things I ever had to do.

"I would never want to put you in that position again," she says and places her head on my chest again.

"I don't want to be in that position again," I say after some considerable thought, because saying feels like I'm mirroring Helena's want to leave.

"So long as I am part of the Warehouse," she starts fiddling with the covers under my chin, "I will always be a rehabilitated villain."

Eight years ago I would have lashed out at her, given her one of my 'I was right, you're a good person' speeches, but I'm not going to now. It's not that I don't believe that anymore. I do, with all my heart. Helena is a great person. But I know she's right. She's always going to be a usual suspect. "So when you said 'leaving', you meant the Warehouse?"

She exhales a frustrated sigh. "I am angry," she says, but doesn't sound it, "and hurt, and feeling skittish," she rests her hand down on my chest. "And when I feel those things my instinct tells me to run," she remains still for a moment. I feel her breathe against me. "So I faked kindness. I faked forgiveness and nobility for Arthur. I faked them so he would believe I forgave him."

"Faked?" I'm not sure I understand.

"I am borrowing them because I have none in me."

I shift my head to look at her.

"I am borrowing them from you because they were needed to close the book on this messy chapter," she looks up at me for a second, her index finger touches my cheek hesitantly. "I know that if I do not source them from somewhere, there will be no fight left in me and instinct will win," her fingers still before sliding down again, "instinct will win and I will run."

"So you're not running," I'm summarising my understanding.

"I'm trying very hard not to," she looks up again, "but surely you know how hard habits are to get rid of."

"This is you kicking a habit?"

She nods. "This is me picking a page off your book, dearest Myka, choosing to place my complete trust in you," her gaze turns to her hand at my chest, idly playing with the covers again. "Note how I've not opted for an apocalypse," she mutters dryly.

I feel uneasy with her mentioning Yellowstone. Possibly because there is an underlying suggestion that us losing faith in each other may trigger a cataclysmic shift in her.

"Helena?" I ask after a few minutes of silence.

"Yes?"

"You know how I said I didn't feel like I needed to be forgiven?"

I feel her nodding against me.

"I think I do now," I whisper.

She lifts herself, resting her head on her folded arm so we are facing each other, "What do you wish me to forgive you?"

"Forgive me for doubting you."

"I forgive you," she responds without giving it any thought.

"Is this the same forgiveness you've given Artie?" I ask tentatively.

"No," her response is swift and categorical. Like her forgiveness.

"I don't want fake-forgiveness," I feel the need to clarify. "So you can take your time. You don't have to forgive me _now_."

"What if I _do_ forgive you now?" she challenges me.

I open my mouth to answer, but I don't know what to say. "Thank you," I say, or ask, quietly.

"My pleasure," she smiles.

"Can I ask for another?" I hesitate.

She quirks an eyebrow.

"Forgive me for taking a life."

She looks at me questioningly. "You did not take a life," she argues.

"There are two people in body bags who beg to differ if they could," I say, "and don't get technical on me."

"Fine," she exhales. "I forgive you."

"Forgive me for making all my decisions based on protocol."

She narrows her eyes, takes a breath to say something and stops herself. "You are a strange and confounding creature, darling," she says after a moment, "and I forgive you."

I think that's about it for now. I'm sure there will be more tomorrow, and more the day after that.

"There is one thing I will struggle to forgive you," she mentions, off-handed.

I'm feeling tired all of a sudden, and I don't want to get into a fight or an argument or a philosophical debate. "What?"

"Your decision to use the compound."

I exhale heavily. "Are we really going to do this now?" I ask quietly.

She eyes me with pity. "Not now," she reaches to comb hair from my face. "But soon."

"Thank you," I whisper.

She smiles broadly at me.

I look into her eyes, and they are that rich, dark brown; like in that image of hers I recalled earlier. For the first time in four or five days I feel relieved. Really relieved. Like the weight of all that's happened has suddenly become manageable. My body relaxes into the bed and the pillows, my eyes feel heavy and fall shut. Sleep begins to take hold.

"Myka," I hear her whisper.

I open my eyes and look into hers.

"Kiss me?" she asks.

/ /

We kiss long and reverently, languid and tenderly, in spite of being utterly exhausted. As lips softly press against lips, her words echo through my mind, her actions cast reflections. For all my anger and hurt, none of what she had said or done rings of doubt. She spoke _of_ it, she may have felt it, but she did not act on it.

Her lips catch mine and I sigh as I'm filled with longing and love. And I am filled with relief for I truly do not know – nor do I wish to even contemplate – what will become of me without her trust. What will become of me without her. So I reach for the nape of her neck and hold her to me to give back all she has given me.

And only I know just how much she has given me. Possibly more than she ever intended.

/ /

I spend a whole day sleeping and the day after I'm ready to actually do something. It's 6am and I'm up. I think I'm ready to get out of the house.

I put on my running gear and head out. I turn towards the back of the cottage, up the hill towards that farmer's field where the sheep were grazing in the spring. It's a fairly steep hill, so I don't run fast and enjoy the view instead. The sun is coming up over the other side of the valley, mist is rising from the trees. These are the markings of a hot summer day in the making.

The sheep aren't grazing, but they will be soon. The grass is about knee high now and looks ripe for stock to feed on. It's hard to run through, but the smell is revitalising. I suppose that after three days in a HazMat suit, three days of barely breathing and a couple of days indoors, all this freshness is waking me up.

Before I know it I've run across the field and am running through woods. I'm not following a path. I haven't followed one since I entered the field. If I am where I think I am, I should be hitting the substation's perimeter fence any minute now. And sure enough – it's there. And even though I know the fence's specification, I've never actually seen it.

I stop and reach my hand to the fence, hook my fingers into the wire mesh, as I catch my breath. It's the first three layers. The outer fence is old and a bit rusty. Other than being tall and uncomfortable to climb, it isn't much of a barrier.

Then, there is a ten foot wide track that the adjunct troop patrols. There are also movement and pressure sensors all the way up and down it. Crossing the track unnoticed is hard. Not impossible, but hard.

Behind the track, there's the second fence, which looks brand new. It has high voltage warning signs on it and a trained eye will know this fence is electrocuted. It's two feet lower than the outer fence, and even if it weren't electrocuted, it would be an unpleasant climb.

The last layer is a thick, three-foot spool of barbed wire. So if you managed to climb the electric fence, you'd practically land in the wire. Approaching the electric fence from the other side will be a really painful experience that will leave loads of evidence.

I'm not sure what I'm looking for. I'm trying to check if someone could get in or out through here. Or pass something over the fences. All in all there are about 15 feet worth of barrier, end to end. Even if someone did get in, finding the substation from here isn't easy. I'm not sure I could tell where it is. And if someone's thrown something over – it wouldn't be easy to find. The ground is covered in broken branches, ferns, old pines and leaves.

I start walking down the mountain, along the fence, listening to the birds, looking in to the substation's perimeter. My mind tracks back to the second with Karl and Mac up here. I'm sure it was up here somewhere, I'm not sure where – exactly.

Everything was dark, and happened so fast. I was trying to focus on getting to them, and my mind wasn't taking in any landscape markers. I stop at some point, it must have been ten minutes since I started the walk down, and I just stare in, blankly. There is nothing special about this spot. Nothing unique.

I stop because I feel the weight of my gun in my hand. I feel the pressure of the trigger against my finger. I feel my right biceps twitching against my cheek and a bead of sweat resting above my left eyebrow. I feel the recoil of two quick taps and I didn't even blink between them.

I feel a little dizzy, so I reach for the wire fence and grip it tightly with both hands. I breathe deeply, taking in the smell of grass and pine and damp moss and listen to birdsong filling the valley. It takes me a few minutes, but my strength is back, and I'm upright again, and jogging back down the mountain, across the bottom of the field and towards our cottage.

When I come in I can smell tea and toast - Helena is up.

"Hey," I announce, taking my shoes off.

"Good morning," she calls from the living room.

I hold on to the doorframe and swing in to the room, she's sitting on the sofa, book in her lap, Dickens at her feet. "I'm going in the kitchen to get water, do you want anything?"

She looks at me with a smile and points at the table. My bottle is already there.

I smile back at her, "Ah, thank you," I walk in and pick the bottle up before sitting down past Dickens.

"You were up early today," she comments as she picks up her tea.

I gulp water down, and catch my breath before I answer, "yeah, it felt like a good day for it."

"How was the run?" she asks and gestures towards the tea.

I nod and she leans over to pour me a cup. Apparently, I don't know how to pour a decent cup of tea. "It was good," I fall silent after saying that.

She looks at me, knowing there is more to it than that.

"I ran up the field," I say, "up the mountain."

"You don't usually go up there," she hands me the cup, "I seem to recall you dubbing that direction punishing and the fifth circle of hell for knees and quads," she quotes me perfectly.

"I did, and it is, but I just wanted to go up there," I know she's looking at me, piercing, questioning, waiting for me to explain. I know that without even looking at her. "I found the perimeter fence and walked down along it for a while," I am quieter now, "and I could feel it."

She is quiet. She isn't pushing me to say more than I have. She isn't challenging me.

"I could feel that second again, when I shot him," my gaze is fixed nowhere in particular, somewhere on the coffee table in front of me, my hands squeeze the water bottle.

She clears her throat, "and how did it feel?" she asks gently.

"I don't know _how_ it felt," I say, "It felt like it did _then_." I look up at her. "How was it supposed to feel?"

She shakes her head lightly, "Only you know how it felt."

"It felt like firing two rapid shots," I answer, my voice borders on whisper.

"Then that is what it felt like," she smiles and holds the cup at me again.

I take it and put it on the coffee table, where my gaze had been. I look into it for a while thinking whether I should be feeling something else. I know that I should. Maybe at some point. I guess I'm not entirely ready to deal with it yet. Helena looks at me for a while, and then goes back to reading her book.

I'm thinking about Karl on the ground, the haunted look in his eyes. How the fact that he shot himself could have just been a twitch – he wasn't left handed and he was in shock from the gunshot wounds I inflicted. His hand could have just slipped, his finger could have just seized. This could all have been an accident.

I shake my head, take a deep breath and finish the water in the bottle. It could all be so many different things. It's confusing.

I look over at Helena, she is so peaceful. Her eyes scan across the lines on the page, she breathes steadily through her nose, occasionally releasing a breath from between her lips, and then she wets them.

Her hair flows down her left side, creating a backdrop for her crisp profile. On her right side, her hair is tucked behind her ear and cascades along her neck.

"What did it feel like to you?" I ask.

She looks up at me. "What?"

"Going through it, being inside, not understanding anyone."

She closes the book and places it on the coffee table, then looks up before closing her eyes. She's recalling memories.

"It was challenging and lonely," she summarises and opens her eyes. "The challenge was both intellectual and social," she looks at me. "You know how I am with other people," she raises an eyebrow, "I am not the most patient when it comes to the foibles of others in close quarters."

I chuckle. That's an understatement and a half. Helena is one of those people who needs their own space, and lots of it. Without it, she turns into an irritable ball of anger. That's one of the nice things about our cottage. Unlike our living arrangement in the US, for the first time we have enough space under one roof to satisfy her need. People think my office is for me, but actually it's for her: I have that office so she can have the rest of the house.

"The intellectual challenge was quite inspiring at times," she muses.

"Inspiring?" I wonder at her choice of words.

"Every task we had to perform was a puzzle. Every time we needed something from each other it was a code," there is a twinkle in her eye. "It was marvellous to watch and partake in activities that did not require a language to communicate, where the activity in itself was the language," she wears a small, excited smile.

"The card game?"

She nods, "And building the pump."

"That was fascinating to watch," I beam at her, recalling how involved she looked, how eager.

She smiles back at me and blushes a bit. "I do believe, however, that had it gone on for much longer than it had, I would have lost my temper."

"I can imagine," I say.

Then she falls silent and the smile falls from her face. "Loneliness was just that," she says and her gaze falls to nowhere in particular, somewhere on the coffee table. "So many quotes about loneliness," her mind wanders. "A cure for vanity, the ultimate poverty, a sign of bad company, the lack of one's own friendship," she pauses. "The simplicity of it was I've quite got used to sharing my thoughts with another and the possibility of never having that again burrowed a great loss in me."

I should have known that that's how she would feel, and I'm angry with myself for not picking up on that sooner. I feel like I've let her down. "Is there anything I can do?" I ask, my throat closing up.

She looks at me and there is a glint in her eye, "You are already doing it."

I walk over to where she sits and place myself on the floor in front of her.

"You've never stopped, in fact," she tucks stray curls back into my ponytail. "Not even when physical contact and language evaded our grasp," the smile returns to her lips.

I give her a questioning look. I am not sure I can recall making efforts to dispel her loneliness. But I think I'm struggling to remember things clearly already.

"'Myka says hi'?" her smile widens and she sips her tea.

My lips quirk into half a smile. "Did you understand that?"

"Not at the time," she chuckles. "When the girl in the protective suit said it, all I understood was 'Myka'. The rest was code breaking, based on other words I heard you use."

My smile broadens. My side of that memory is the two girls in the HazMats walking up the hill, into the substation, just before Captain French put me back in my Rover.

I'm trying to think back to other times throughout those three days, when I had missed her. When I really felt the pain of not having her to talk to, to work with. I'm trying to think whether I did anything _for_ her. I can't remember. Everything about those three days is becoming a great big mess.

The image that springs to mind is the opposite of being attentive: Helena, Jade, So and Martin are sitting on the bench at the back of the infirmary that looks like a hurricane tore through it.

Sometimes I just admire how the brain works, finding problems and inconsistencies without the conscious mind even noticing.

"Helena," I start and I know I'm not waiting for her to acknowledge, "I need you to tell me about what happened before I came in to the infirmary to take the body bags."

She takes a deep breath, bows her head and closes her eyes:

"We were playing the nth iteration of Jade's card game. Karl was a reluctant participant for two rounds and the boys seemed to agree between them that he was to be dealt out of the next round. He got up from the circle and started pacing at the back on the infirmary, where he and I slept. He did not look comfortable and was checking his watch incessantly.

"After two more rounds of the game, Martin got up to try and calm him down, but I do not believe he had much success. Karl's tone and behaviour turned even more erratic, if anything. He kept gesturing towards his watch and the door. At the time I assumed he was getting claustrophobic, seeing as it was unlikely he was late for a pre-arranged rendezvous. All of us were suffering a form of cabin fever, but something seemed to have fractured in him.

"Martin forced him to sit down on his bench, got him a drink of water and dispersed the game. We each settled down for a rest before you were due to return.

"A while after the room had fallen silent, I heard a distinct digital sound from Karl's direction. It isn't a sound I had heard before or since. He fumbled with his watch, walked to the infirmary door and began keying in code after code in the hope one would enable him to exit.

"By his third attempt everyone was up, Martin and So took the initiative to try and stop him. It did not take long for the situation to escalate and for them to attempt to forcibly drag him to the back of the infirmary. If you can imagine that tight space, the three of them fighting in the doorway, Karl in all his six feet of height, So and Martin attempting to subdue him. It looked like a scene out of Gulliver's Travels. In the haze of the struggle, they managed to turn one of the stretchers over, knock a few chairs. Jade, Mac and I remained frozen in our spots.

"I cannot speak for them, but I could not fathom a single action that would have brought that situation to a resolution without causing or incurring serious injuries I would not have been able to manage given our resources. So I chose to not step in.

"Karl then struck Martin who fell backwards onto the overturned stretcher, clawed So off of his arm and shoved her to the back of the room, towards us. She slipped on a wayward sheet and fell to the floor. He finished punching a code, which opened the door. He walked out, and we rushed towards Martin and So, to collect them, to check them.

"From where I was, I could see Karl putting on a protective suit and heard him unlocking the armoury's door. Mac must have noticed the same, because not a second after she lunged out the door after him.

"Once we took Martin and So to the bench at the back, I went out to the helm to see two protective suits, a gun and a Tesla missing. I locked up the armoury, locked up the Helm, went back in the infirmary and locked it up as well.

She opens her eyes and looks at me, "the four of us stayed sitting there until you came for the bags and the extinguisher."

I take a moment to put all this together. "That's odd, right?" I am thinking out loud.

"I'm afraid you will have to be more specific," she demands.

"I mean…" I'm processing as I'm speaking, "If all Karl wanted was to get out, why put on a suit? Why take a gun?"

She nods, "I was considering it at the time, which is why I locked everything up behind them. Whatever his motivation was – it was more sinister than a breath of fresh air."

"We know now that he is likely to be involved in this somehow," pieces are falling into place, "so maybe there was someplace he had to be?" I check my logic with her.

"Somewhere up that mountain," she echoes my thoughts.

"The missing Tesla…" I mumble to myself. "You told all this to Steve, right?" I verify with her, she nods, I bounce to my feet and rush upstairs. "Where's the Farnsworth?" I yell down to her.

/ /

Myka is somewhat disappointed to find out that the team had not only started following up her line of enquiry during the day she caught up on her sleep, but had actually walked quite a distance along it.

It turns out the missing Tesla is – indeed – the key to the mystery, and the team tracks it to a makeshift short wave radio transmitter hidden within the trunk of a dead tree, just under a mile from where Myka's stand-off with Karl had occurred.

Within the hour the core team assembles in our cottage for lunch and a briefing: Irene, Arthur, Pete, Steve and Claudia. Arthur chooses a seat as far away from me as possible. I clock Myka giving him a scowling look that makes him shrink in his seat. I scan the faces in the room, and they all seem a bit worse for wear. The past few days have been taxing for everyone.

Tense chatter is brought to a halt as Irene speaks.

"Karl was brought on board the team with the recommendation of a number of Regents," she speaks slowly, making eye contact with each and every one of us, "and you may notice that The Regents are not represented in this room. It is therefore required that the contents of this conversation remain within the confines of these four walls." She looks directly at Pete. "Am I being clear, Agent Lattimer?"

"Crystal," he answers quietly, avoiding her piercing eyes.

"Agent Donovan managed to scan and collect a handful of recordings of short wave frequencies in the area at the times the Gilgamesh Whip and Babel Stones were activated and we believe we have managed to locate a string of messages passed across an underground network of short wave radios that relayed news of the activation and their outcomes from the substation and out."

"Very Smokey and the Bandit," Pete comments.

"Very smart, actually," Claudia nods at him. "It was a pain in the bucket to track."

Irene eyes Claudia sternly.

"Sorry," Claudia mouths and sits on her hands.

"It would appear that Karl's presence at the substation was not accidental. He was placed there with the purpose of reporting on substation and Warehouse operations to those who placed him there."

"The Regents?" Pete whispers to Steve who sits next to him.

" _Some_ Regents," Steve nods the distinction and shushes him.

"The code used in his encrypted transmissions resembles the syntax of Demotic Egyptian which some of you may recall is associated with early Warehouses," the chill of her gaze is focused on me. My sympathy to Arthur grows, having suffered the same sensation from Myka earlier. I dart a look across the table to her, catching her already looking at me.

"Just giving it a little Da Vinci Code flavour," Steve jokes quietly.

"Love a good sect with a code," Claudia pipes up and they chuckle.

"Which comfortably links to the findings from our research into the means of activating artefacts remotely," she builds up to somewhat of a dramatic crescendo.

Myka straightens her back and her eyes light up. She has a plan, or an answer.

"We believe that an identification tag that was worn by Agents of early Warehouses and then passed on from Agent to Agent has been imbued with the ability to control artefacts from the Warehouses in which it was worn."

Pete appears slightly shocked. Steve as well, but less so.

"How long have you known about this?" Steve asks, his eyes scanning all the faces around the table.

"We only pieced the whole thing together over the past couple of hours," Arthur admits quietly. "Myka had actually done a superb job with…" he mutters and his voice fades as all eyes, including mine turn to him.

"We," Myka draws the fire towards her, "we were researching this since Pete's…" she looks at him, "…since the Gilgamesh Whip incident, and that's one of the theories we came up with. So far it's the only one that still hasn't crumbled."

"How come this isn't on our Most Wanted list?" Pete asks.

"Because we didn't know it existed," Myka answers. "The accounts of it are so sketchy and vague… and it's such a simple explanation, which made it feel very unlikely."

"But in Artefact speak it makes it a solid bet," he iterates what we are all thinking. "So where do we find it?" he asks her.

"I don't know," she shrugs.

"Artie?" Pete turns to him.

He shrugs as well.

"If we knew that, Agent Lattimer, there would be no need for this cloak and dagger approach," Irene gestures at those present at the table. "But all our evidence points at the Regents who have formed the dissident junta."

"The what now?" he asks.

"A breakaway faction," Myka tries to help, with limited success.

"Splinter cell," Claudia offers and the metaphorical eagle lands.

"What're they getting at?" Steve asks.

"It would appear the evolution of the Warehouse is not to their liking," Irene explains.

"Ooh," I exclaim. "Fundamentalists".

"And how do we know this?" Myka challenges.

"We've been investigating the Regents who brought Karl in and we are aware of other Regents being approached with a message," Artie says.

"Whoa, hold up there," Pete raises his hand, "pull the emergency break please."

The room falls quiet and we all look at him.

"My Spidey Sense is tingling. Where's my mom in all this?" concern floods his voice.

Myka gets up from her seat and walks to the sink. She fetches a glass of water.

"Jane has her instructions," Irene says.

"What?!" Claudia exclaims in disbelief.

"You have got to be kidding me," Pete leans into his chair.

Myka places the glass of water in front of him and stands by his side, her arm wrapped around his shoulder.

"Jane volunteered," Artie picks up, his voice booming through the room to calm the children. Myka and I exchange a quick look, 'volunteered' rings familiar, "to see if she receives a message from-"

"The woman is pushing eighty, man, are you out of your mind?" Pete cuts into him, close to losing his temper.

Myka presses her side into him, pulls him into a hug, and jumps to his aid. "Is there another way where she doesn't get involved?"

"That's insane, Artie," Claudia adds, and with that the conversation descends to a loud and angry free for all.

When Myka and I were discussing my lack of patience to the foibles of others – this is a prime example. This conversation is too intense for me to observe, let alone contribute to, so I walk out through the French doors into the garden.

It is hot and slightly humid outside, the heated voices of the discussion match the temperature of the air just past midday. The team's voices carry, but ten steps away from the cottage and their overly emphatic tones become white noise. I look up at the trees that mark the end of our garden, mountains framing them in patches of slate grey and forest green, gleaming in the bright sunlight.

"How are you holding up?" Irene asks from behind me.

"As well as could be expected," I turn to face her.

"And just how well is that?" she insists.

"Another day, another danger," I pun, "such is the life in the Warehouse, is it not?"

She smiles a knowing smile. "I am concerned you are getting more than you bargained for, Ms. Wells."

I chortle and drop my gaze. "Perhaps I have," I muse, "Though I am not yet sure which of the lot of us is the one with the raw deal."

She smiles her knowing smile as she approaches me until we are facing each other. "You are not obligated to stay," she looks at me from above the rims of her glasses.

"And who are the 'you' to whom you refer?" I ask flippantly and am mightily surprised by her answer.


	7. Chapter 7: Eden

Jane never gets contacted by the rogue Regents. That's not strictly true… I'm saying 'never' and I can't promise they ever will, but eight months down the line and Jane hasn't been contacted.

Everyone stopped thinking about whether or not Jane will be contacted about four months ago. We are still on some level of alert, we are still spying on the rogue Regents, but since The Babel Incident there were no other remote activations and since Karl's death chatter between suspected dissidents has gone very quiet. Between us, we agree that the network has gone underground, and we are still trying to track down the remote control of artefacts.

That's not strictly true either. I'm saying 'we', but that's very much a royal we. I'm not really involved.

For me, the past eight months at the substation have been very different from the first eight months. The Babel Incident did something to me, it pushed me over a line I wasn't ready to cross just yet. It made me spend a lot of times thinking about being crazy, evil or dead – because these are the options, right?

Well... Crazy, evil, dead or Artie. And with utmost love and respect to the man, I don't like _any_ of these options. Not for Helena. Not for me.

It's like something in me broke over those three days. Like I got to a crossroad and I had to pick: 'crazy, evil, dead or Artie?'. Maybe it was the whole of the first eight months' building up. Maybe it was the intensity and solitude of the three days and the choices I had to make. Maybe it was the fact that I doubted Helena, that the professional me had to go against the grain of the personal me. Maybe this conflict of interests is just not working itself out, between the professional and the personal.

They train you in the Secret Service. They train you to make decisions on instinct, they teach you trust yourself. They teach you to assess a situation and act in a split second when the potential consequences are devastating.

What they don't train you on is how to deal with it once it happened. They don't teach you to reconcile your actions with your beliefs and your values. And that's where I'm struggling.

I talked to Abigail a lot. I talked to Helena a lot. Both of them (swearing they weren't coordinating) recommended I took some time off. Both of them recommended I started carving time in my schedule for reflection, to acknowledge what I'm going through, especially when the stakes are high.

And the stakes did run very high the first eight months. We were attacked twice, infiltrated by a spy, Pete nearly died. I held the lives of seven of my fellow agents in my hands and lost two. I held Helena's trust in my hands, and betrayed it. I'm counting myself lucky I haven't lost it, that she hasn't lost it.

I have a really bad track record when it comes to dealing with loss or betrayal. As Claud, Pete and Abigail pointed out to me, I'm great at assuming the fault and removing myself from the situation.

So I tried something different this time. In the first few weeks after the incident, I read and re-read everyone's statements including mine. I reviewed all of our protocols, took apart every possible thing I _could_ take apart to see where the weaknesses are. Including all of _us_.

All that made me realise is that _I_ developed a weakness. I call it weakness. Abigail calls it revised priorities: I don't ever want to have my friends' lives in my hands. I don't ever want to doubt the people I love. I can _do it_ , I know I _can_. I have an exemplary track record showing that I _can_. But just because I can, doesn't mean I should. Doesn't mean I want to.

I don't want to because I think that I am (or have become) the sort of person who will wind up crazy or evil or dead if I need to do it again. And frankly, I don't want to stick around to find out if I'm right.

Luckily though, the past eight months have been fairly lightweight. In fact – life has become very much business as usual. Things get sticky on occasion, but they are the garden variety snag, bag, and tags. The substation is up and running again, we run diagnostics regularly and upgrade security all the time.

We have two new local agents, Git (Gillian T, a friend of Mac's from her old SAS troop, who picked her own callsign, which made the rest of the locals laugh) and Rave (Richard V, the officer who helped me that night on the mountain who struck the cutest bromance with Pete). We also have a resident team from South Dakota who go out across Europe on retrievals and change every four weeks.

I moved on to the next phase of establishing the substation. My job now is to get more countries on board and secure more manpower. So for the past six months I spent most my time plane hopping all over Europe, schmoozing security agencies with a new proposition of working with the Warehouse: five and eight-year long tours with the substation. No more.

Given everything that's happened I don't want to get people involved on the basis of a lifelong commitment. I can't recruit people with the promise that their ultimate options are crazy, evil, dead or Artie. _I_ don't want to make that choice, and I'm not going to force it on anyone else.

We've had arguments about this, the old team and I. We are a secret organisation, having lots of people involved sounds counter intuitive. But I really believe that finding the _right_ people doesn't happen by chance. And sometimes the _right_ people need to be let go of so that they can continue being _right_ people.

And maybe I'm biased by my own agenda. And that's why I'm going to South Dakota tomorrow.

I get off the evening commuter flight from Prague and am surprised to see Helena at Arrivals, waiting for me. She's leaning against a bar of a coffee place, answering emails at 8pm on a Friday night. She must have had a busy week if she's answering emails on her phone.

Her being so engrossed gives me an advantage – she doesn't even notice me and I don't need to creep up behind her because Heathrow at 8pm on a Friday is loud and messy enough. As I approach her I'm thinking - shall I let her just finish this…? Maybe not. I walk up into the space behind her and wrap my arms around her waist.

She is startled but relaxes into me in an instant. "Let me just finish this…" she says distractedly, "It's been such a busy week…" she taps her screen for a few more seconds, and turns around in my arms, switching her phone off and slipping it into her pocket.

I'm guessing she was held up. A meeting must have overran and she thought -

"I thought I should catch up with you here and we could travel home together, given a meeting overran and I was held up in town," she speaks through a bright smile and leans into me.

Did she just…? It feels like she's saying what I'm thinking. Almost verbatim. I must be tired. I shake my head lightly. "Good thinking. It's so good to see you," I look into her eyes. I missed her this week.

She smiles coyly up at me, turns around to grab her bag, takes one of my hands from her waist and drags me towards an exit.

"How was Prague?" she asks when it's only the two of us in the elevator to the parking lot.

"You know, I want to say 'pretty'…" I scrunch my nose up and let her finish my thought.

"You didn't get to see much of it this time either?" she scrunches her nose in sympathy.

"No," I shake my head with discernible disappointment, but maybe soon.

"Maybe soon," she smiles as the elevator stops at our level.

She follows me to the car while telling me about her week and the project she has been scoping for a healthcare company. The words she uses to describe them is 'a group of yoga enthusiasts who are planning to take over the world'. As I unlock the car and we throw our cases on the back seat, I wonder if plotting world domination on behalf of -

"I realise that plotting world domination on behalf of a corporate, albeit one with the intention of eradicating obesity and heart disease , is possibly not the best activity for someone with my somewhat chequered past," she says as we get into the car, "but this is rather good fun."

"Okay," I place both my hands on the wheel, "this is creepy."

"What is?"

"It's the fourth time in less than fifteen minutes that you've said exactly what I'm thinking."

She raises both her eyebrows, giving me a questioning look.

"What?" I think I sound annoyed.

"I don't understand, Myka" she looks baffled.

There is a tense silence between us. I look at her blankly, and she looks blankly back at me. I'm trying to not think about anything and see what she says. I'm also trying to detect the smell of fudge, and start recalling odd objects I've come into contact with in Prague.

This is stupid.

"Ugh," I exhale, "I don't know," it comes out as a whine. I put the keys in the ignition and start the car. "Maybe I'm just being paranoid because I'm worried about tomorrow."

"Oh," she nods slowly and looks at me.

I put the car in gear and drive us off, saying nothing. My mind starts racing. I'm thinking about the purpose of tomorrow. Of the weekend. At the Warehouse. I'm running through everything I've done to _deal_ with that's happened, how different that is from the past.

I start breathing more deeply to try and stop the mayhem in my mind and Helena notices.

"Do you want me to drive?" Helena offers.

I shake my head. "No, thanks. I think I need this to clear my head."

For the first fifteen minutes of the drive I'm just focusing on getting us on the M25. Getting out of Heathrow is a freakin' nightmare. No matter how many times I do this, I can't seem to get it. And that says something – when the person with the eidetic memory can't remember how to get out of an airport.

"Fancy sharing?" she asks when we're on the highway.

Oh, what can I be sharing? That I'm becoming one these yo-yo agents who has a love/hate relationship with the Warehouse? That I can't help but compare the reasons for wanting to leave this time to the reasons that made me leave last time? Is it any different this time? Am I really going to consult with my best friends, or am I going to make an announcement? Because I think my mind is already made up. Mostly.

I'm going to the Warehouse tomorrow to tell Pete and Claudia that I want to leave.

"Am I doing the right thing, Helena?"

/ /

I want to say 'you are, Myka', but I know better. I reckon that in her current frame of mind, anything I say will be met with resistance. Over the past eight months she has been working very hard to come to terms with what has happened in the eight months that preceded them, as well as residual emotional fallout from past losses and pains.

She has changed quite a bit during the time we had spent in the UK together. Given all she has been through, I am hardly surprised. Yet, occasionally she will say or do something that will make me remember another Myka, to whom such words or actions would be foreign.

I find myself studying her when she's not looking. My mind backtracks through all the Mykas I've known. The suited-and-booted Agent Bering I met at my residence in London, whose hand I brushed with the back of mine as she secured me to a chair; Agent Myka Bering who took a punt and placed her trust in me to help her save the life of Ms. Donovan; Myka who noticed me noticing her, who rewarded me with her idle glances and timid smiles for accidental, fleeting touches; Myka whose heart-breaking honesty and trust stopped me from thrusting a trident into the earth a third time. My Myka, just out of my reach, slightly more confident and slightly less stiff in her manner; my Myka who placed her stock in me time and again; my Myka, whose life hung on my ability to recall my time with an old man; my Myka who would not give up on me. Myka Bering who came at my request to Boone; Myka Bering whom I had attempted to convince to leave and forget me; Myka Bering who became a friend.

Then there was Myka Bering who volunteered to be my handler, who I got to know anew, the same Myka, but different. She was Myka Bering who had a commanding air of silent confidence; Myka Bering who could turn any situation in her favour; Myka Bering who was honest and trusting; Myka Bering who had suffered enough heartbreak to last her a lifetime.

I fell in love with her all over again, and she grew to become _my_ Myka: the one who kissed me in the kitchen of my newly acquired home in Featherhead; the one who found me in a van in a Boston Supermarket car park; the one who negotiated my passage out of Turkey; the one who supported my consultancy practice in any way imaginable; the one who met me in airports and hotels for an hour or a night or two of stability; the one who healed so beautifully from injury; the one who dreamed of and built the substation.

My study of her consists of comparing _this_ Myka to the Mykas of the past and I am in awe of the changes in her. This Myka had risen above a struggle I had succumbed to.

There was a time, after the Babel incident, when she was riddled with guilt and anger; they sunk their fangs in her like venomous reptiles and delivered a dose of their poison. Guilt haunted her over her team's death and her mistrust in me. Anger plagued her for doubting me, but also echoed in her against me, for being who I am, for my darkness.

 _Our bedroom dons a warm glow of a February sunset, pink and orange clouds cast fading sunlight onto white washed walls in the final moments before the sun sinks beyond the Cambrian Mountains. The air is thick with the scents of a winter stew slow-cooking downstairs. The only sounds are the clock in the hallway and our breathing._

 _I can hear her heartbeat, but that is because my ear is directly above where her heart is. I feel her chest rising and falling and her heart reverberates faintly against me. I can also feel her pulse, thrumming gently through her femoral artery because my fingers, still warm and slick from their exploits not a handful of moments ago, rest on the inside of her thigh._

 _I am expecting her to fall asleep – she and I had worked hard over the past few hours – but her breathing is not slowing. Her body remains alert._

" _What is it, darling?" I ask without moving._

" _It's six months today," she answers calmly._

 _Of course it is. Six months ago, at about this time, Myka arrived at the substation after a train journey fraught with angst to find us in lockdown speaking dead Mediterranean languages. I move my hand from her thigh gently and slowly, until it rests across her abdomen._

 _There are still many things she – and I – are yet to fully come to terms with. We work through them in a different order and at a different pace, which makes for a confusing healing process. We often find that there are things that I have already dealt with that she hasn't, and vice versa. As such, wounds are revisited, perhaps, all too frequently._

 _I am giving her the time and space she needs to articulate what she is thinking while remaining physically close to her. I am adamant that we remain close through this._

" _I'm still so angry," she is choking tears, and pauses._

 _I'm contemplating whether to ask what or who with._

" _I'm still angry at myself," she augments, "and you," she inhales loudly and holds her breath. "I don't know what to do with all this anger," she says, finally, and exhales slowly._

" _Why are you angry?"_

" _That's what's bugging me, you know? This anger goes around in circles. I'm angry at myself for suspecting you, but then I'm angry at you for being suspect material," her voice is ringing with her frustration. "But then it's up to me to stop making you into suspect material, right? I just needed to trust you, to not consider you as a suspect…" she trails off, "and I_ _did_ _trust you, I_ _do_ _trust you, but I still had to consider you," she sighs in defeat._

" _Because I_ was _a suspect, Myka," my fingers smooth her skin, "everyone in that room was a suspect."_

 _Her heartbeats quicken and her breathing is louder. This tells me her senses and thinking are fully active, sharpened. "Aren't you angry?"_

" _I am," I still haven't moved from her, "but less so."_

" _So if I asked you now if you forgive Artie – will that be any less fake than six month ago?" I feel her fingers touching my temple, caressing my hairline softly._

 _I take time to think about it. I recall the conversation we had downstairs, his heartfelt apology, the explicit information it delivered, the implicit information it imparted. "_ Less fake _? Certainly. True, heartfelt forgiveness? Not quite."_

" _And me?" she isn't shy of asking a difficult question, only this question isn't difficult at all._

" _What about you?"_

" _Are you angry with me?"_

" _Oh, Myka," I push myself up from her and lean my head in my palm so I can look down into her eyes. "I was never angry with you."_

 _She looks into my eyes for a moment, searching for something she cannot find in them. So she closes her eyes and lets her head roll over and away from me._

 _I will_ not _let her get away with it. I place two fingers under her chin and pull her back towards me. "Look at me, Myka," I command, but delicately._

 _She sighs as she looks up at me, her expression is that of a petulant child knowing they are about to be told off. I cannot help but smile because it dawns upon me that this is the very thing she finds exasperating in me at times._

" _What's funny?" she is annoyed._

" _You are so stubborn," I repeat her words to me, words she'd said so many times, "it's tiring."_

 _She recognises my reference and smiles. "Yeah?" her smiles widens, but her tone is steeped in righteousness. "Good."_

" _I was hurt by the implication, Myka, but I wasn't angry with you," I try to explain. "How could I be? Had I been in your shoes, I'd have suspected me."_

" _Somehow it's not making me feel any better."_

 _I take a moment to form a better way of explaining this to her. I know the conundrum she is facing well, it is governed by the irrationality of compromised confidence. "Do you remember I once said that whenever the Warehouse and I mix, terrible things happen?"_

" _You said 'lives are ruined'."_

 _I give her a surprised look. "I stand corrected," I am not sure why I'm surprised she remembers; I shouldn't be, but I am._

" _So it's the Warehouse? The Warehouse made me do it?" she teases incredulously._

 _I sigh. She is right, this_ is _tiring. I apologise to her in my mind for all the times I wore her out with my ill-humour. "Not the Warehouse itself, but rather the necessities of working in it."_

 _She takes a breath and opens her mouth to say something, but stops. She purses her lips and she turns focussed, concentrated. "So it's_ how _we work…" she considers it as she speaks._

 _I nod in agreement. "In order to do what Warehouse agents do we have to make difficult choices all the time," I look at her, still deep in thought. "So much so that they become habitual, heuristic. We cease to consider their implications in the heat of the moment," I pause. "After a while, we cease to consider implications at all," I add, knowing the weight of the statement I had just made._

 _It's her turn to nod. After a short silence she exhales a quiet laugh and looks at me again. "It's funny because the whole point of protocols is to simplify complicated stuff. Make things easier, not more difficult."_

" _Ironic, perhaps. But not funny."_

 _She quirks her eyebrow, "I stand corrected," she echoes me._

" _Sometimes_ stuff _cannot be simplified," I still struggle with the use of the word 'stuff' as a generic replacement for nouns, "sometimes it must not be simplified."_

 _She hums in agreement and looks away from me, to the ceiling. She's engaged in thought again. "Helena?" she asks._

" _Yes, darling?"_

" _Do you ever think about the future?" her gaze is still fixed at the ceiling._

" _In what way do you mean?"_

 _It takes her a moment to consider the options. "Not in a science fiction, what-will-technology-and-society-be-like-in-a-hundred-years'-time way…" she starts, "but us," she finishes quietly. "_ Our _future."_

 _Now I am truly surprised. Myka and I, since my return to South Dakota, since being placed in her duty and under her care, have not discussed a future. We, upon explicit agreement between us, due to the nature of her impossible job and my impossible life – do not occupy ourselves with possibilities, what ifs and maybes. The both of us, together and apart, have seen and been through too much to contemplate plans of a_ life _together. We take pleasure and joy in every day we spend together and – in hindsight – these days amount to a_ _life_ _when put together, but we have never planned for one. We are grateful for what we have, when we have it, for as long as we do._

 _Or so I thought._

" _I… uhm… Myka…" I stammer._

" _That's a no, then?" she is asking with honesty, without spite or annoyance, looking into my eyes, and my breath hitches. Her honesty will be the death of me._

" _Do you?" the surprise in my voice is evident._

" _I didn't used to," she says. "We agreed, didn't we?"_

" _We did," I answer._

" _And all this time I didn't think about a future. I didn't plan for next week or next year or ten years from now. We know_ better _, right?"_

" _We do," I chuckle._

" _But then I killed two people –"_

" _Myka," I plead with her._

" _No, Helena, they were_ my _team and they died on_ my _watch. I fucking_ shot _one of them," she will not let this go. "I_ killed _two people and all I keep thinking about is that I don't want to die. Not like that. Not on a mission. Not on a retrieval," she closes her eyes and collects her thoughts. "What we do at the Warehouse is important and noble and admirable and amazing," she pauses again. "But it's_ endless _. It will_ never _end. There will always be another artefact, another danger."_

 _I huff a short, sardonic laugh because I said something similar to Irene six months ago._

" _But living like this… in danger, all the time…_ will _ruin lives," she looks at me again. "Will ruin_ my _life," she whispers and reaches a hesitant fingertip to my lips which she holds for a long minute._

 _I know I am arrogant, overly confident, opinionated, somewhat self-absorbed and rather pompous, but I am none of those things when I ask her to complete her thought, "will ruin your life with me?"_

 _She nods and grins, crookedly, coyly. "I don't have a plan for next week or next year. I just want there to be a next year," she stops. "Or ten," she adds quietly, the faintest of whispers._

" _So the future you thought of is a future you simply wish to exist?"_

" _Yes," she is quiet and pensive._

 _I rest my head back on her bare chest, placing my ear above where her heart is. "Then I thought of this future too," I admit._

 _Her heartbeat quickens – just – and I cannot help the wide, satisfied smile that shines across my lips._

 _Her hand returns to my hair, trailing fingers into and out of the hair above my exposed ear. "Looked like I gave you a scare," she says, half amused._

" _I dare say you did surprise me," I bring the pads of my fingers to her shoulder, to draw invisible vines on it._

" _I think we know each other well enough, Helena," she strains to lift her head and place a kiss at the top of mine._

" _One must never assume…" I start without real intent of finishing. It's a lesson learned extensively over my tenure, to never assume one knows another_ that _well._

 _Our hands remain idly busy in hair and on skin until Myka stops. She places her hand on my shoulder and squeezes it pointedly. "Helena," her tone is serious._

 _I lift myself up to look at her._

" _I think I want to leave the Warehouse," she says. "I think I need to."_

 _This_ Myka, unlike those who preceded her, looks beyond what is in front of her. _This_ Myka dares to want and then reaches out to explore more and farther than she ever had. _This_ Myka speaks louder and does not seek the approval of others.

How proud I am, how overjoyed - to call _this_ Myka _mine_.

I love you, Myka. "You know that I love you," I say eventually.

She casts a quick glance over to me, almost as if to say I had not answered her question.

"I do not believe you will find my answer helpful, darling," I start, "for I believe whichever choice you make is the right choice."

She clears her throat in anticipation.

"Stay or leave, now or soon or never – I will stand beside you."

She is breathing slowly and deeply, concentrating, pondering. Her face is illuminated by soft light of the dashboard, casting a pale blue hue on her cheeks. She appears to be suspended in time, frozen. "You're right," she speaks low after a long pause, "it wasn't helpful."

I exhale a light chuckle and she smirks at me.

"But I really appreciate you being here, with me," she purses her lips and nods stiffly. "I really do."

We speed up the M40, lapping miles that bring us closer to our home, battling one or two April showers that pound down so harshly we must slow the car down. It's a dark and difficult drive, especially once we are off the motorway and on to country roads.

I would like to engage her in conversation, I believe it could be helpful to her. She, however, may not see it as such. So I give her room to sulk. And think. And be.

"Helena?" she speaks, emerging from a deep state of absorption.

"Yes?"

"I love you."

We arrive at our cottage late in the night. We are both tired beyond any measurable means, so we leave everything in the car, go inside and collapse.

Although I fall asleep fairly quickly, I feel Myka tossing and turning next to me all night. Given the number of times she wakes me, I reckon she doesn't sleep much at all. When she gets out of bed at five in the morning, I sleepily follow her into the bathroom.

"What are you doing up?" she whispers as she reaches for her toothbrush, as if there is another soul in this house she dares not wake.

I step behind her, lean my head against her back and wrap my right arm around her waist. I want to give her a meaningful answer, but all I can provide her with is a grunt.

She laughs and turns to face me, pulling me into an embrace. My head is now resting atop her breast. It is soft and comforting and I slip into the clutches of sleep easily. "Helena…" she lilts my name as she rocks me side to side, "why don't you go back to bed?"

I grunt again, "Because," I start but cannot finish the sentence. Because I know she is not in a good place, but I am too tired to bring myself to say it, or handle the consequences of challenging her. Instead I squeeze her and sigh.

"What's wrong?" she lets me lean into her for a few moments before attempting to peel me away from her. "Are you worried about something?" her tone is somewhat mocking.

"I am," I bat her hands off of me and tighten my hold on her, trying to make her effort of removing me from her as difficult as possible.

"Helena…" she scolds my passive-aggressive attempt to subdue her, "God, you're worse than Dickens," she mutters.

This piques my attention, I let go of her at once and raise a questioning eyebrow.

She bites her lips, realising she misspoke. "When you get like this…" she is getting defensive, trying to explain her slip of the tongue. "When you cling…" she stops herself before she digs herself even deeper. She turns back to the sink and fiddles with the toothbrush and toothpaste. "You're _not_ clingy, Helena, and I know something is wrong when you get like _this_ ," she gestures at me through the mirror with a hint of disdain.

Just like _I_ know something is wrong when she doesn't sleep. "I'm knackered, Myka, knackered and worried," my tone is equally scolding as hers.

"What are you worried about?"

"How much did you sleep last night, exactly?" I confute her apparent lack of concern.

"I dunno," she splutters with a mouthful of toothpaste, uses the time she brushes her teeth to think. She spits and answers "An hour?"

"At best," I say, "if you generously add up the fragments of minutes."

"So?"

"Really, Myka?" I'm not knackered anymore, just worried. "And what about the rest of the week? Not a day went by when you were away in which you did not mention how badly you had slept the night before."

"So?"

"Do not take me for a fool," I do my best to keep my anger at bay. "I know very well what triggers your sleeplessness. I know very well what it turns you into," I am stern and unforgiving.

Myka braces the counter with both her hands, letting her head drop. "What do you want me to say?" she exhales.

"Is coming back to bed not an option?" I reach my hand to the small of her back, my voice as softens to match my caress.

"No," she shakes her head, definitive in her answer, "I'm wired. I need to get this out of my system before I go."

"May I join you, then?"

She lifts her head and eyes me through the mirror again. "Sure," she shrugs with the curt response.

"Hand me my toothbrush, then," I hold my hand out to her.

She smiles at me and hands me both brush and paste. She eyes me carefully, watches my every move as I brush my teeth. Her smile hangs like a crescent moon and her eyes are shrouding a secret.

"What?" I ask her.

"Nothing," her smile deepens and her cheeks round higher. She pushes herself off the counter and walks out the bathroom, not without dragging her fingertips across my backside as she walks past. "Better than anyone else," she mumbles.

I am quick in my preparation to leave, Myka is waiting for me by the door. I rush down the stairs and fumble while putting my trainers on and she is amused by my lack of coordination.

"I take it you find this entertaining," I say, a bit breathlessly as I straighten up when I reach her.

She hands me my windproof. "You are the most graceful woman I know," she says with a big, bright smile, trying to fall back in my good graces after likening me to our very old and very needy cat.

I am not convinced.

"Actually," she corrects herself and opens the door, "you are the most graceful _person_ I know," she tries to squeeze a response from me.

I walk out. "It may be a while before you are forgiven, darling."

"I know," she follows me out and locks the door behind us, "I deserve that."

"Where to, then?" I start stretching.

She heads towards the trail at the back of the cottage, "I should know better than to agitate a dirty old…" she looks over her shoulder towards me, with a devilish grin across her face.

"You did not just…" I mutter under my breath and hurry after her.

She giggles, picks up her speed to gain distance from me up on the trail that will lead us up the mountain.

Soon enough she slows down and I catch up with her. I'm surprised she is in such a good mood. I had anticipated her to be more solemn given her state last night, given her lack of sleep over the past week.

Her sleeplessness has gotten better of late, but in the first few months after the Babel incident, she had been troubled by dreams and thoughts of what she could have done differently to have achieved a better resolution; one that did not involve having our lives in her hands, that did not involve her staring over the bodies of two of her team, that did not involve her suspecting me.

"You're rather chipper," I speak as we reach a steady pace up the hill (which I can now _feel_ why she had described as punishing). "Was your non-sleep conducive?"

She exhales a short laugh, but says nothing.

We jog at a light pace up the mountain and across the farmer's field, where we have the opportunity to scare off some unsuspecting sheep and their young. At the top of the field, just by the tree line, Myka stops, places her hands on her hips and turns around.

I do the same, looking at what she is looking at: the clouds above the mountains are painted in streaks of pink, orange and gold, declaring the rise of the sun over a horizon obscured to us by bold crags. The cliffs loom in stark, grey, silent contrast to the bright orchestra of light and birdsong that echoes throughout the valley, unphased by the sounds of a train going by, a handful of lorries on the road that meanders along the river and the bleating of lambs regaling the tales of two two-legged beasts pounding through their meadow.

I turn to Myka and her face is awash with awe and joy as her breathing steadies. It has been a while since I had seen her like this – beaming in bliss, eyes glistening, wide smile stretched across her lips, revealing her teeth underneath.

"I'm chipper," she is choking – either a breath or a tear, "because I'm ready."

"Ready for what?" I catch my breath and walk up towards her until I am standing by her side, adopting her stance, looking at where she is looking.

She is towering over me, the few inches between us feel more than they usually do. I look up at her as she looks down at me and I realise she is crying.

"To let go," she says, inhales deeply, gestures with her head towards the trees and we walk into the woods.

 _It has been four weeks since I returned from Turkey, since Myka negotiated my release from the clutches of the secret police there, who arrested me under a ridiculous charge of fraud. Myka's investigation turned out that a presiding professor at the Istanbul Technical University had tipped the secret police off after notes from a lecture I had been asked to deliver about humane practices in global organisations was flagged up as plagiarised – ironically or predictably – from the writings of HG Wells._

 _What Myka shared with me only after the ferry we were on crossed to Greek territorial waters, is that Claudia identified both the professor and the head of the local secret police office as members of an extreme off-shoot of Anonymous, who had been suspecting my existence (as well as other preposterous conspiracies) for some time._

 _Between them and in the time they had, Claudia and Myka managed to rather impressively fabricate sufficient evidence to convince authorities that I am, in fact, a legitimate heir of the HG Wells proprietary estate._

 _I noted to her this was a rather convenient arrangement and that we should, perhaps, consider integrating it into my identity. Ever the cautious pragmatist, she noted that the more one uses fabricated evidence, the more scrutiny it receives – a somewhat unwelcome attention._

 _She persuades me with the promise that she will carefully consider my suggestion, and requested that for the time being, I refrain from proactively referring to HG Wells and_ his _proprietary estate._

 _We are home now, in Myka's flat, to be exact, she is in her reading chair and I'm sitting by the window. In my lap I have the report we pulled together about the two week ordeal I had endured in Turkey._

 _The descriptions in the report do not do the situation justice: "Helena's cell; 6ft x 9ft, 2 aspects – thick stone walls; 1 aspect – natural rockface of cave, 4th aspect – 2 inch galvanised steel bars, no window. Contained: low bunk, 5ft x 2ft; blanket; 1 bucket for waste, refreshed sporadically; 1 bucket of water, refreshed daily;"_

 _Said cell was in an underground cavern used by crusaders in the 12th century to store food and wine. A natural refrigerator, the cavern was dank, dark and damp, its temperature rarely rising above 5 degrees. Needless to say that the blanket provided did little to dispel the chill that – by the time I had been freed – sunk into my bones and gripped me like bindweed._

 _I spent two weeks locked in that cell, only removed to be interrogated more times than I could count. Two weeks, in which I was deprived of any human contact (bar interrogation in Turkish); deprived of means of telling time – natural or artificial; two weeks in which I could only make three steps at a time; two weeks in which the cold and dark were not a metaphor in the confines of my mind, but an_ actual _physical reality; two weeks of isolation, of helplessness, of fear._

 _Myka's fingers sweeping my hair from my neck rush me away from the very real dark of the cell to the very real light of her front room. She is standing behind me, gently touching the fingers of her left hand to the base of my neck, and the fingers of her right are stilling mine – clutching my locket._

" _Hey," she whispers, and her touch, her voice calm me. I am not alone. I lean into her touch and breathe deeply. "Tell me."_

 _There is little I am yet to have told her. "I do not believe I had ever felt so helpless," I speak softly._

 _She joins me on the window seat, in front of me, takes away the report and closes it in her lap._

" _Did you know you've been worrying the locket for about twenty minutes now?" she looks intently at me._

 _I shake my head._

" _What have you been feeling?" she challenges me._

" _I was feeling that cell. I was feeling the isolation, the complete and utter lack of hope," I offer, somewhat despondently._

" _And what does the locket feel like when you hold it now?"_

 _I pause to consider her question. My fingers clasp the locket tightly, I feel its edges dig into my fingers. It used to make me remember my daughter, her courage and charm and wit, the warmth of her smiles and embraces, the joy of her laughter._

 _But since being bronzed and certainly since my return to life in this century, it had increasingly felt like loss. Like loneliness. Like despair. I feel sadness tinted with anger rising within me. Have I lost the last remaining vestige of goodness that Christina gave to me? "Why are you asking me this?"_

 _She reaches both her hands to my cheeks for a gentle caress, then her fingers travel to the back of my neck to unclasp the locket's chain. She drags her fingers softly and pries my hand with the locket from my chest, bringing it down to my lap, to join the other._

 _She envelops my hands with hers, a light yet warm touch._

 _She studies our hands in my lap. "I'm asking you this because…" she pauses to take a deep breath, "because I am wondering whether the locket stopped feeling like Christina and started feeling like something else," she says and her eyes burn into mine, "something_ dark _."_

 _Oh, Myka. What did I ever do to deserve you._

 _I look down at our hands and slowly let go of the locket. It falls into her hands with a soft rattle. I release my hands from hers only to reverse their positions, so my hands envelop hers. I tighten my hold around them and now her hands are the ones cocooning the locket._

" _It does feel like something that is_ not _Christina," I whisper shakily. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest with an ache and a longing for my daughter who died a senseless death. I recall the shape of her eyes, the shape of her mouth, her hair. At first, I recall them when she and I were together, playing in the nursery, feeding the waterfowl in St. James Park. But then I recall them, dulled and lifeless, in the dim light of a cellar of a Parisian police station, I recall her pale and still body in a casket._

" _Helena," Myka's hand is on my cheek, "Helena. Stop." Her thumb is stoking it gently, tracing my cheek bone._

 _I blink once. Twice. My lids fall heavy and I struggle to lift them open._

" _Tell me her story about the Barbarian Queen," she speaks softly._

 _I exhale a choked half laugh half cry and open my eyes, which are still fixed at our hands: hers is a loose fist around the locket, mine are cupping hers. I smile a tired smile and tell her of Christina's Barbarian Queen, a fearless leader who ruled Britania's shores from the flats on Anglia to the cliffs of the Northern Moors, who bravely fought Normans and Vikings and Kelts away from her villages._

" _Tell me about the time you snuck her into the House of Lords."_

 _So I do._

" _Tell me about the flying machine you built with her."_

 _So I do._

" _Tell me a story I don't know."_

 _So I tell her about when I taught her to sword fight. I tell her about when Catarunga taught her to play chess. I tell her about the time Wolly had to mind her while I was rushed to retrieve an artefact from a Vaudeville theatre dressing room and when I had returned a day later she had taken to his tuition, and was now speaking German._

 _I then notice that Myka placed the locket back in my hand, but her palm is pressing into mine – we are both holding it. In this moment we had un-created an artefact, and Christina's memory had ceased to reside within the ornate metal case._

 _I look at her, at Myka, and she looks at me with patience and love and care, and I feel the memory of my daughter is living not only through me, but through her as well._

" _Maybe it is time I stopped wearing it," I say._

" _Do you think it'll help?" she asks._

" _I do not believe it helps having it on."_

" _Okay," she nods slowly. "Let's keep it close, though," she tightens her hold on it and my hand, "just in case." Then she gets up and walks to her bedroom. I hear her opening and shutting drawers – she's looking for something._

" _Myka," I call to her. I need to ask a favour of her._

 _She returns and stands beside me, holding out a small, simple wooden box atop her stretched palm._

 _I take it, hold it, press my fingertips to its surface, feeling its soft curves, its imperfections. I lift the lid – it does not open smoothly, its hinge creaks and sticks. It takes effort to crack the hard shell and get to the soft, red velvet hidden within. It'll do perfectly. "Will you remind me to tell you about her?" my request exposes the soft, red velvet hidden within me._

 _She nods, "I will."_

We reach the substation's perimeter fence in minutes and she heads further up the mountain still, along the fence. After ten minutes of a steady climb she stops. It takes me a few minutes to catch up to her, and she holds her left hand out to me. I take hold of it only once I'm standing next to her.

"Thank you for coming up here with me," she rubs her thumb in my palm. "I'm sorry about before," she says sheepishly, "you're nothing like Dickens."

I smile up at her, "You are forgiven."

"Open your hand," she asks.

I let go of her hand and hold mine up, she brings her left to rest underneath it. She reaches her right hand to the pocket at the back of her running tights and takes something out. She holds her fisted hand above my extended palm and releases her fingers slowly, one by one, and I feel two small, elongated and rounded objects fall into it.

She presses her palm into mine gently and we both feel them – two bullet casings. Her eyes are fixed on her hands, mine and the casings sandwiched between them. I hear her breathing as it slows, as she picks and chooses where to begin, what to say.

She starts with telling me about that night. About the mad run up the mountain, about the HG tracker, about the standoff, how in less than one second four shots were fired and within twenty seconds a fifth had gone off and two people were dead.

She then tells it to me a second time, but now she tells me how she feels in every second. She tells me what passes through her mind, through her heart. She tells me about how empty they both were during that second when she squeezed the trigger.

"I fired a gun a hundred times before. I fired a gun at people before too. But never like that. Never." She sounds at peace as she tells me this. "That day…" she pauses, "It was dark and I was tired and amped up on caffeine and no sleep and worried out of my mind that I will miss, that I will hit him an inch on either side, and a whole other outcome will've transpired. Either one of us could've been dead the second after that."

I look at her expression, honesty and sadness and worry filling it, fleeting across it like brief shadows.

"For so long afterwards I couldn't decide whether Karl had shot himself on purpose or by accident. After a while I couldn't decide if he shot Mac on purpose or by accident too. All I knew was that I _didn't_ shoot him by accident. I shot him on purpose," she pauses and releases her right hand from the top of mine. "But I think – now – that it doesn't really matter, because I'll never know," she furrows her brow, "I will never know what he was thinking."

She looks at the casings and picks them up, weighs them, rattles them in her hand. She places one, lengthways, between her thumb and forefinger, holds it up to the sky, as if she is looking through it. Then she does the same with the other. She palms both of them again before placing them in my hand once more.

"I come up here to feel it again. Every time I come up here, I can _feel_ it," she presses her forefinger onto one of the casings in my palm and rolls it backwards and forwards. "Feel the gun in my grip, and how my grip was still, but my muscles were shaking. Feel very heartbeat, every breath, every blink. Feel the recoil."

She stops rolling the casings and lets her arms fall limp by her sides. She bites her lip and looks up, into my eyes.

"Feel the recoil that released one of these casings because I was less than three feet away from it, and feel the recoil that released the other one, because I fired it."

I look down at the casings with the new knowledge that one is from her gun, the other from Karl's.

"And now two good people are dead," she takes a breath, her eyes well up and she looks down again. "I know that Karl wound up being part of what caused this…" she stops to pick her words, "but I also know that I can never _ever_ presume to know what made him do what he did," she looks up into my eyes now. Whether or not she means to, I do not know, but I feel as though she is comparing Karl's villainy to mine. "And I need to know…" she wipes her eyes and her nose with the back of her hand, "and I need you to know that I can forgive. And trust. That I haven't stopped."

She brings her left hand back under my right and presses my fingers back into my palm so the casings are firmly within my grip.

"I know," I answer. "I know just how capable you are of forgiveness and trust, Myka." I place my left hand on her arm. "Even now."

"Thank you," she mouths. She doesn't cry for long, and when she stops she releases a hard breath and a laugh, albeit somewhat uncomfortable.

We stand in the woods for a while, the light filtering through the branches and leaves slowly changes from the tentative brightness of early morning sunrise, to a distinct and firm glow, as the sun creeps over the crags on the other side of the valley. The orchestra of songbirds dies down as dawn fades into morning, and turns to solo and duet performances of birds alerting their kin to food or predators.

Myka looks around her, taking in the wilderness that surrounds us. She takes deep breaths, closes her eyes and mouths "thank you," to the branches above us. She spends a while longer practicing her breathing and I can see how calm and awe are filling her again, like earlier, at the top of the farmer's field, by the tree line.

"Do you want to go back to bed now?" she asks after a deep sigh, and starts down the mountain.

/ /

At 4pm So and Martin open the gateway and I cross over to the Warehouse. Claudia is waiting for me on the other side.

"You know that ever since we have the gateway, every time I meet you face to face, it feels less of an achievement..." she ponders out loud.

"Is this meant to make me feel worse?" I angle a dubious look at her, "Or better?"

"Argh," she pounces on me with a hug, "who am I kidding?"

I commit to her hug, commit to hugging her back. I know more about the finality of this hug than she does. "Good to see you too, Claud."

"Let us tend to my office," she stiffens her lip and speaks in her posh voice.

She walks us three aisles across and one up, we arrive at a clearing between the stacks, a wide space with desks outlining its borders, work benches criss-crossing the large rectangular floor space. Once we are in, she presses her thumb into what looks like a very small touch screen, and the clearing is boxed with a semi-opaque screen.

"Wow…" I gasp like a kid at a candy store. I can't hide my amazement at a "Force field?"

"Kinda," she blushes. "It's not going to sustain the blast of a photon torpedo or anything," she shakes her head, "but it keeps nosey people out, and noisy people in," she gestures emphatically with her hands.

"Very cool…" I'm impressed. I'm so far beyond impressed and I'm beaming.

"Thanks," she mutters shyly, then shakes off the insecure teenager she will always be and points towards two armchairs in the back of her office.

We sit down, and I'm feeling nervous. So I smile at her. And she smiles back. And pick my fingernails. And she's looking at me.

"What's going on, Myka? You're making me really nervous."

"Huh," I chuckle to myself. "This is just really hard to do."

I go quiet again, and she gives me a lot of time to come up with something. But I'm not really able to.

"You want to leave," she says with what feels like little thought and little emotion.

I look up at her nervously. "I want to leave," I say quietly.

She purses her lips and looks down.

"It's not because of you," I hurry to say. "Or Pete, or Helena or anyone in the team, or… or the substation," I take a breath. "It's because of _me_ , but not like last time."

She looks up at me. She doesn't look hurt, she looks inquisitive. " _Not_ like last time?"

"First of all," my hand gestures turn nervous too, "I am here talking to you about it, rather than leaving a letter with Mrs. Frederic."

She acknowledges with a nod, a pout and a raised eyebrow.

"Also," I can feel my logical side taking up a lot of my brain power right now, "I've taken a lot of time to come to this decision. This is not a knee jerk reaction to a failure."

She nods again.

"More importantly…" I need to be happy with how I say this. It could come out hurtful. I take a deep breath, "I need to know that I have a future," I say and look at her.

She says nothing.

"I need a future where I know I won't be pushed into doubting the people I love, or aim guns at them," I finish the thought in its entirety.

She's completely still.

"After the cancer, after Pete, after my injury and his…" I sigh heavily, in lieu of the danger and angst I'm omitting, and I'm omitting a lot more than I'm mentioning, "after this… I need… I need less danger, less excitement. I need more time with my family, inside the Warehouse and out, I need calm."

She is silent for a thoughtful moment. "Crazy, evil or dead, right?" she says with half a smile. "You need to not be crazy, evil or dead."

"Or Artie," I say quietly, and she laughs out loud, her laughter rings in her force field. I laugh with her, because I can't not laugh when Claud is laughing.

"Yes!" she catches her breath. "Just don't tell grumpy bear."

I shake my head vigorously. I would _never_ tell Artie.

"So…" she says with a long breath, and turns serious again. "What do you need from me?"

"I wanted to know what you thought."

"Me?" she points at herself.

I nod. "You."

"What did everyone else say?"

"You're the first person I'm talking to about this."

"Awww…" she wears a mock vulnerable face and melts into her armchair, "Myka…"

"Here's another thing that's different from the last time," I decide to point out. "You're not a little sister anymore. You're my go-to person."

"Me?..." her tone creeps higher still.

"You."

"Isn't H offended?"

"Helena is my go-to person for a whole bunch of other stuff."

"Up-pup-pup-pup!" she utters loudly over the end of my sentence, plugs her ears with her fingers, not wanting to hear any of it. "I don't wanna know."

"So what do you think?" I urge her.

"I'm sad to think of you not being here anymore," she leans back into the armchair, straightening her legs, looking at her sneakers, "but I know that you'll always be part of us. Part of me. You're still my family."

I beam at her and feel my cheeks flushing, which means tears will be seeping out soon.

"Plus HG is still – technically – an artefact, and you are still – technically – her guardian," she is drawing circles in the air with her right hand, "so _technically_ you will still be part of the Warehouse. But not in a… like… active capacity," she looks at me, waiting for me to confirm her logic.

So I nod.

"I think I can live with that," she says. "You still have to come over for Thanksgiving, though," she points at me.

"Deal," I seal the conversation with a decisive nod.

"Deal," she does as well.

She gets up to remove the force field, and I just have to ask. "How did you know?"

"I think the Warehouse knows," she turns to me and looks around her at this beast, the most animated inanimate object in the world. "Do you want to go see Pete now, or later?"

"Now," I say, and as we walk up the next aisle, I catch a scent of apples.

/ /

Untethering our lives from the Warehouse takes time. Not that I ever assumed the process of moving out of the Warehouse, so to speak, would be a simple task with a definitive completion date, but at times I have found myself needing to be reminded that our lives will never be fully unlinked from endless wonder, that we will forever be connected to the Warehouse and its people, no matter how tentatively. As dearest Claudia insists, we are family.

I find comfort in this admission, not least because it helps me grow beyond my status as a human artefact. More importantly, it's a matter of retaining a sense of familiarity in my relationship with Myka as it changes: she and I must recognise that the both of us have spent more of our lives within the Warehouse than outside it. Furthermore, throughout the whole of the time Myka and I have known each other, the Warehouse had always loomed nearby. Sometimes I wonder whether it is even possible for either of us to live wholly without it.

So while we shift our involvement in the daily goings on from central to peripheral, I choose to accept the presence of the Warehouse in our lives with open arms, and welcome the opportunity to give thanks to this miraculous oddity that allowed me to live long enough to meet the age in which Claudias and Mykas prosper.

It's easier for me to make such choices, as the impact on my life isn't as encompassing as it is on Myka's. While I had been slowly building a life for myself outside the expanding walls of the Warehouse for the past decade, Myka's life had had been concentrated within them for past two. I do believe she is finding the reality of backing away difficult.

She is not one to unburden her responsibilities onto others and when she is forced to, her perfectionist aspect rears its head. It is not an aspect of Myka's her nearest and dearest find pleasant. In fact, it is probably the only aspect of hers I do not find endearing, as much as I love her. I've learned – the hard way, it must be added – that there is no point in taking issue with it. I prefer to avoid it like the plague.

The past few weeks saw at least two instances during which emotions ran very high among the team. While neither instance came to blows, there had been raised voices and words were had in private after each event.

Not surprisingly, I had been placed in the position of peacemaker as the belief among the team is that I have the capability to disengage Myka's pernickety, detail-driven focus. Unbeknownst to them, I do not possess this magical power. I do, however, manage to appease her most times by reminding her (and myself) that there is a greater goal to be striving to, a reward at the end of this gauntlet, a reward of peace of mind. Of Wholesomeness.

It has befallen upon me to maintain focus for the both of us, a role I'm learning to fill since the Babel incident. This is a slight shift in our dynamic – historically, Myka had been the one to be maintaining focus, giving me strength when I lacked it. But now, she is the one lacking strength as she searches for a meaningful way to repurpose her talents. For the first time since her late teens she is seeking a vocation, and there are few ready-made jobs for her, considering her abilities and experience. I would go as far as to presume there are, in fact, no jobs that would fully utilise her capabilities.

For the time being, I've invited her to work with me on some of my projects, and she blooms. Yet, when the substation calls on her to navigate murky minds of politicians and generals, she thrives. So while we search for roles for her to engage with, she lacks a structured routine which – for her – is a trying endeavour.

All that said, I have not remained unscathed in this transition. Other than dealing with the shifting roles in my relationship with Myka (which requires a considerable amount of adapting on my part), I had to find an outlet for my technical savviness once my management of the substation's infrastructure ceased. Without the technological challenges of the substation, my work lost its mundane charm, and is now increasingly becoming boring.

It is not until we are letting go of the Warehouse that we realise how deeply embedded it had been in our daily routines. Almost every practical aspect of our lives changed: what we do, where and when, how we communicate and with whom.

For example, this is the first time there is no Farnsworth in our household. This may sound like a small change in hardware preference, but is, in fact, the first time in two decades that we can disconnect from the world. We are no longer accessible at any time, we are no longer accessible when travelling or in areas where mobile reception is non-existent. This, in itself is an adjustment, and I will not lie – has done wonders for our quality of sleep and the quality of our quality time. I well and truly celebrate the sense of real privacy that we are experiencing for the first time.

Along with privacy and our altering dynamics, Myka and I are exploring new ways of being together. Our free time, how we spend it and the topics of our conversations changed as the number of distractions around us decreased. Not that Myka and I ever run out of topics to discuss passionately, but there have been occasions recently when we expended far more energy when debating hypotheticals than we may have done in the past, simply because we _can_.

There is no longer a need to conserve our mental and emotional faculties for whatever doom we will surely be facing the following day.

Excitement seemed to have suffered a similar fate to that of distractions. An understandable decrease as we are no longer faced with mortal danger on a weekly basis. And thus, compared to a few months ago, our lives began to feel somewhat dull.

As neither she nor I take kindly to excessive leisure (and as both she and I have the tendency to get bored fairly quickly), we have been increasingly adventurous in our extra-curricular activities, from travel to food to each other.

I've been spending time experimenting in the kitchen (which, I found, is a lot like work in the fields of Chemistry and Physics) and Myka takes us to explore the beautiful, strange and exotic which she makes a point to locate in the most banal of places, from the Mid West to the Far East.

And as for each other…

Myka and I had always shared physical enthusiasm for one another and have often experimented with this enthusiasm. Since leaving the Warehouse, she has more energy about her and, similarly to the added energy we have in our conversations, our passion for each other has additional fuel. Much like with our conversation, we _can_ expend more energy when we are with each other, so we do.

Another shift in our dynamic is that for the first time in our time together, it is my work that dictates our schedule. For the first time in my existence as a thoroughly modern woman – I am the primary breadwinner in our household, supporting a kept woman.

When I consider how removed this existence is from the clipped and crippled reality I left in the 19th century, I feel ever so slightly elated. In this existence, I own a business. I publish my work under my own name. I am allowed to accrue debt. I have my name on the title deed to our cottage. I can share the ownership of this deed with another woman, live my life with her openly and without the ambiguity of the nature of our involvement.

True, mankind hasn't progressed as much as I would have imagined in a century, but this progress warms me to the possibilities of a _different_ future.

I often indulge in thoughts of socio-economical progress – science fact and science fiction – when I am travelling alone. And since our departure from the Warehouse I find I travel alone more than I used to.

I am sitting on the train back from London, following three days abroad and a conference in the Capital. A packed week like this would leave me sufficiently tired, but the past forty eight hours have been one travel disaster after the other, turning short journeys into burdensome experiences. For all the wonders of modern technology, its most amazing is how spectacular it is when it fails.

I was due to arrive home late last night, but malfunctions in just about any relevant technology (all of which have been blamed on an unexpected heatwave, much to my disbelief) have had me travelling from London northwards for the better part of a day. I'm sure this journey, from Euston to Welshpool, would have taken less time in the late 1800s.

By the time I arrive back at the cottage it's early afternoon. I fumble with the key in the lock and walk in, allowing the door to fall shut behind me rather loudly. I exhale a groan as I throw my bag and coat and jacket – all unnecessary in this heat, then slump while standing in the foyer, thinking what I require first to relieve my home sickness, my travel sickness and my fatigue.

Shoes off first. I unzip the ankle high boots and pull them off me. The cool slate floor welcomes my aching feet and abates the throbbing pain of having been clad in said boots for too long. A drink next. I make my way into the kitchen to find the French doors wide open to the garden, the dining table bathing in sunlight, a warm and humid breeze wafting in, filling the kitchen with the scents of damp grass and ripening fruit.

I fix myself a short Gin and Tonic and walk towards the French doors. I lean against the frame, look out into the garden, and take a long sip. The alcohol stings my mouth and throat, clearing hours' worth of breathing recycled and compressed air. The fresh mountain air tastes sweet after the soothing burn of the drink.

The second sip sends the chilled, intoxicating liquid through me and leaves a frozen trail that spreads from my stomach outwards. The third sip pushes the cool sensation until reaches my extremities, reaches my skin from the inside.

Another moment and another sip and my second wind arrives.

Where is Myka? As I am scanning the kitchen and garden for evidence of her whereabouts, I am mulling over the emergence of the assumption she will be waiting for me at home. Could it be that I have developed a chauvinistic expectation that – now that I am the earner of the household – my companion will care for me upon my return, drink in hand, meal at the ready, enticing outfit on – ready to satisfy my needs?

I take a moment to conjure an image of Myka from my imagination to fit the fantasy: she is wearing simple high heeled blue shoes, a thin strap fastens them around the base of her ankle. Her long legs sheathed in tan pantyhose. A 50s style, richly folding, dark blue circle skirt falls loosely above her knees, tightening around her waist, with a thin white belt accentuating them, spanning her. The bodice of the dress hugs her curves and delves down the middle of her chest with an alluring cleavage. The straps of the dress rest peacefully on her shoulders, and it would take little more than a brush of a finger to slide them off of her. Her head is held high, the crisp lines of her jaw and chin are smoothed with the faintest touch of rouge, her lips curved into a sweet smile, painted in red. Her eyes burn in their welcoming emerald, her brow with its natural quirk. Her beautiful, rich brown curls are carefully pinned into place around her head, and flow down to her shoulders and her back, almost tamed. _Almost_.

How delectable, I think and bite my lower lip as I feel my want for her growing, a seedling peeking out from the earth, unfurling its leaves towards warming sunlight. I must remember to suggest this to her.

Now, where _is_ she?

I breathe in the hot air and step down to the patio and on, to the garden. The grass tickles my bare feet, cooling me further as I dig my toes into the damp, green blades. I run my fingers through my hair, releasing it, letting the light breeze evaporate sweat from my scalp.

I notice her arm resting limp on the grass, in the far corner of the garden. I should have known I will find her there, in _her_ corner. She lays on the grass, on her back, splayed under the Buddleia bush. I walk towards her, expecting her to make a noise of some kind. Usually she reads a book or listens to music, so I'm expecting the rustling of pages or enthused tapping of palms and fingers against limbs or objects, or feet against each other or the ground.

No sound comes from her. She is too silent and too still. It worries me to think this, but she is _deathly_ silent and still.

"Myka?" I speak quietly and continue my approach, until I'm standing over her.

I sigh quietly in relief, because she is sound asleep. I can tell by her breaths, steady, short and far apart. Her fingers twitch occasionally. Eyelids flutter lightly in dream, her face peaceful and relaxed.

Her outfit is quite possibly the direct opposite of the 50s ensemble I pictured her in earlier: she's wearing utilitarian, synthetic hiking capri trousers in olive green. One of its sleeves is bunched up around her knee, the other is bunched up higher, tantalisingly revealing her lower inner thigh. Her exposed legs are starting to glow in pink. She must have been laying like this for a while, the sun is leaving its mark on her skin.

Her white cotton t-shirt is tucked at the front of the trousers and rides up a bit, exposing an inch or so of her waist on either side. It is a thin-weave material and I can see her abdomen extending underneath it and the outlines of her bra pressing against it as she breathes. Her arms are stretched sideways, still and calm like the rest of her, with the exception of an occasional twitch of her fingers.

Her neck glistens with a hint of sweat; pollen, tiny flowers and dust cling to her skin like bees to honey. I know that in a matter of moments, my lips will be clinging to it as well.

Her hair cascades wildly behind and under her head, as though it is taking root in the ground it falls upon. The angle at which it falls exposes the bottom half of her ears and the patch of skin surrounding them. They are flushed in pink – she is hot – the temperature outside taking its toll on her even as she slumbers.

 _So_ delectable. I feel my pulse in my lips, yearning to reach her skin.

One of the advantages of living in a remote location is the privacy even when outdoors, so I sit myself next to her and ever so gently grant my lips relief for their longing, and touch them to her fingertips.

She mutters incoherently.

I tease her middle finger with my teeth and reach my tongue to the pad of her forefinger. I wrap my lips around both of them and take them into my mouth.

"Helena," she groans sleepily.

I wonder if that's all it took to wake her. I look up to find she is still asleep. My lips curve into a lascivious grin at my name falling from her sleeping lips, from her sleeping thoughts, from her dreams.

I draw my mouth up from her digits and begin a trail of kisses, nips, licks and bites down her fingers, onto her palm, to her wrist and her forearm.

I reach the crook of her elbow and swirl my tongue in its soft saltiness. She sighs my name again, shakes her head lightly and shifts her hips. Yet – she is still asleep.

I continue my journey up the inside of her arm. When I get to her shoulder, covered by the thin cotton of her shirt, I deal harder and wetter bites that ease again as I reach her clavicle. When I arrive at the base of her neck, I lay persistent caresses with lips and tongue to her neck, and it glows redder than it did a few moments ago. All the while, my need for her grows.

I'm about to reach the soft, pliant bud at the tip of her earlobe when I'm overwhelmed by a sudden need to touch more of her, so I stretch my arm around her to tuck my fingers under the raised hem of her shirt. She shudders as my fingertips travel up her abdomen, pulling her shirt up with them, out of her trousers and I reach my lips to the tip of her lobe to kiss it.

A breathy moan escapes her lips that rocks me to my core – literal and figurative – I can feel just how much I want her. I let go of her ear and search for her lips.

"Myka," I whisper equally breathlessly, "let me…" I bring my lips to hers for a gentle yet lingering kiss.

Her lips are dry so I wet them with my tongue. It is only when my lips fully crush hers that I feel her tensing under me.

I pull away immediately to look down at her. She looks a bit confused, her breath is heaving, nipples straining against the material that confines them and she is rubbing her thighs together.

"Helena," she croaks as she pushes herself up, leaning on her elbows behind her, "you're home."

"I am," I grin as I take her in, every inch of her, every detail.

She keeps wetting her lips, dragging them into her mouth, one at a time, over and over. Her eyes are straining in the light, their grey-green matches that of the Buddleia leaves. And she blinks, heavily, not quite ready to wake up.

Her hair is tousled, a branch caught behind her left ear and a leaf above her right, a spider climbs an errant curl that jots out from her mane. Her cheeks and neck are red, a deep blush running through them and they exert a new, thin film of sweat.

"Was I interrupting?" I purr and lean in to ghost my lips near her cheek. "You look positively bothered."

"I.." she sways into my touch, then away from it, then clears her throat, "I was asleep," her voice is deep and it rolls through me like thunder.

"I noticed," my lips feel the heat of her skin, feel her pulse as well as my own.

"I was dreaming," her breath begins to even out, her senses begin to calm and her voice tells me she is beginning to regain control.

"Really?" I taste the corner of her lips with the tip of my tongue. "What about, pray tell?"

"No tell," she growls and pulls me on top of her, "just show." She pushes her hand under my hair, at the nape of my neck and takes me in for a kiss. It is passionate and attentive and dominating. I fight her for control, nipping her lips as she suckles on mine and we groan wantonly into each other. This blessed friction pools arousal in the pit of my stomach and it travels further down, heated, as we make up for a week's absence, and I know that the synthetic blend of my trousers will do little to hide it.

"I missed you," I manage to whisper in between pulls and thrusts.

She exhales a laugh I could best describe as menacing, "you have no idea," she pushes me and herself up to a sitting position, pulls my top out of my trousers and tries to unbutton it in a haste while commandeering my mouth and breath, fumbling unsuccessfully with the double row of tiny buttons. "This shirt…" she mutters eventually, frustrated, and rips it open.

I don't have time to complain about her ruining of one of my favourite shirts, a Chanel no less, because her fingernails rake my ribs then my back, up to the clasp of my bra and her lips and teeth are busy marking my chest.

My fingers tangle in her curls, tugging and releasing, lightly and harshly, to counter her mouth on my chest and – oh, _heavens_ – on my breast now, "Myka," I moan and her hands are at my waist. She lifts, goodness me, she _lifts_ me with a firm hold and I can't breathe for a moment as she places me pointedly on top of… against her thigh.

"Hel—" her breath hitches and my name remains half spoken from her lips, as she feels just how much I've missed her, how much I want her. Her hands slide to the curve of my backside and she pulls me in, towards her, and releases; pulls me again and releases – dictating a slow rhythm I did not realise I craved.

I don't know how she does it, but I'm even more aroused than I was a minute ago. Her kisses are bruising and unforgiving, almost painful, but not, travelling between my lips and breasts, not relenting. She _had_ missed me, and I had _no idea_ just how much. But I missed her too, my Myka, and _she_ has no idea just _how much_.

She bends her knee slightly, her thigh pushes farther into me and I slide down it, into her, and her pulls grind us together just that little bit harder, pushing me just a little bit closer to the edge, and then a little more. And then closer still.

I don't want to come just yet, and I will _not_ let her win this round. I started this, I had a plan, a plan that's come back to me now, seconds away from my release, and I want her at my mercy.

My hands travel from her hair to the juncture of her neck and shoulders, my thumbs finding the dip behind her clavicles and I push them in – firmly, but not harshly.

She yelps in pain and leans back from me. Her eyes burn with desire and frustration – how dare I interrupt her.

I hold my index finger to her lips to silence her qualms and lean closer, eliminating the small gap between us. "Not so easily," I whisper into my finger and her lips then press mine on top, waiting for her to open her mouth so I can push in, finger and tongue together.

She gasps at assault and I lean back, drawing my finger out ever so slowly, "and not like that," I add, tracing my now wet finger down her chin, the regal column of her long neck and down her front to the bottom hem of her shirt, to divest her of it.

She bites her lip as my hands roam her naked torso. "You wanted me to show—"

"I did not," I correct her, fingers sliding down to tuck in and out of the waistband of her trousers, "I asked you to _tell_ me," I enunciate, touching my tongue to my lip to emphasise the Ls.

Her eyes are glued to my lips as I speak, she is transfixed, her blush deepens and engulfs her chest as well. She is _hot_. Hot and bothered and I am so proud I made her so.

"Tell me, Myka," I shrug off my ruined shirt and bra, and flatten my body against hers, pushing her flat on her back.

"I don't want to tell you," she says through gritted teeth and a wicked smile, refusing to play my game, seeing as I wrecked hers.

"If you don't tell me…" I pull up and back ever so slightly, just so I can brush my breasts against hers on the way down, "I will have to guess," I whisper as my eyes come up to meet her.

She chuckles, her hands brushing their way up from my hips to my sides, until her thumbs stroke the sides of my breasts, threatening to tease achingly wanting nipples.

I remove my hands from her body and place them on hers. "…and you know just how bad I am…" I push her palms down slightly so her thumbs reach where I want them and she does the rest – grazing dark, eager peaks, trapping them between the base of her thumbs and her palms. "…at guessing…" I whimper and she growls, flashing her teeth and running her tongue against them, looking at me, predatory.

I arch my back and send my hair back, taking pleasure in her torment and in the subtle moves her pelvis makes against me.

"Don't stop," I lean forward onto my elbow which I place above her shoulder and deprive her the contact she craves. I thread my other hand in her hair and straighten my leg so my thigh grazes her sex.

A low moan rumbles from her and she lets her head fall back, closing her eyes, accepting her fate. My hand creeps from her hair down her side, feeling the tension in her deltoids and biceps as she fights the urge to do more, feeling her obliques and lats tremor with every breath she takes. I make quick work of the button and zip of her trousers and my fingers skim the outline of her pants, at the very apex of her thighs.

Her hands slow against me.

"Don't you dare stop," I instruct her.

She opens her eyes and smiles defiantly as she stops her caress but does not remove her hands. "So bad at guessing," and captures my bottom lip in her teeth and bites down, a rebellious act against my perceived tyranny.

I release a devious laugh of my own – the game seemed to have taken an interesting turn and I'm willing to raise the stakes.

I push her pants to the side and smooth two fingers along the length of her wet folds, doing my best to retain my façade. Oh, it is so very hard to pretend to not be affected by her slick, wanting, warm softness.

She tries to keep hers, but her body gives her away and she rocks into my touch for a few seconds.

And then she stops.

I can only imagine the amount of mental energy it takes her to stop moving. I move against her, but her mind is made up. How _does_ she do it?

"Minx," I throw with a smile.

"Tease," she throws back, equally amused.

We stay like that – me on top of her, both of us half naked, her hands at my breasts, mine in her hair and her sex – for a while. Before too long the strain of this position begins to take its toll on the both of us.

I admit defeat to myself and start pulling away. My body refuses to sustain my stance above her, as wondrous as it is, after the week I've had. She grins triumphantly for a split second, but then pulls me down and I collapse, the full weight of my body topples onto her.

She tangles her hand in my hair while the other reaches mine still touching her. Her eyes glow with joy and want, and she traps her full, bottom lip in her teeth. "Take me," she says and pushes my hand deeper into her, and she sighs and kisses me adoringly.

So I do – there and then.

Then she takes me in the kitchen, while I try to cook dinner.

And then again in the front room, after dinner.

/ /

Let me paint a picture for you, then I'll have to teach you to see it.

It's a line from a song Claudia made me listen to after we talked about my leaving the Warehouse. I like that song, it kind of reminds me of early Prince.

The whole point of that song is that no matter how amazingly lucky you are to be allowed into an Eden, it will – after a while – lose its charm. Enough will happen to eventually hurt you. And at some point Paradise won't be Paradise anymore, and you will need to find someplace else to go to. You'll need to find another Eden.

And that's sort of what happened to me and the Warehouse.

I love the Warehouse. I love the substation. I love every minute I had spent there, even the ones that were difficult and painful. And, god, there was a lot of pain. But I don't regret a single thing.

So what changed in my Eden? I think I did. There was a moment I realised that my truth had changed, that it isn't the same truth Helena told me to not run from way back when. It wasn't easy to admit, it wasn't easy to talk about it with the people I love.

Claud was so understanding. She almost made it too easy. A part of me thinks she knows something neither of us knows, as a Warehouse Caretaker. Maybe she knows that Helena and I will always be with the Warehouse, so she's not making a big deal out of it.

Steve's not making a big deal of it either because he and I are bound by the connection Kevin and Helena share, so both he and I know that this isn't the end of anything.

Artie grumbled at me, but didn't look surprised. Helena thinks that he is a little jealous that I'm daring to do what he never could, and still can't.

Pete took it harder. It was a little bit like breaking up with him all over again. He must have been silent for about half an hour after I told him I wanted to leave, and for Pete that's almost a record. He made me swear that he'll be invited for The Pete Special (with bacon) at least twice a year (his birthday and mine), and that I will continue honouring my commitment to our annual Halloween movie marathon.

But I actually found that the hardest thing is for me to let go, because _this_ is everything I've lived for for the past twenty years.

Holy crap, that sounds like _such_ a long time. Just shy of half my life.

I still believe in what we did, in what the Warehouse does. I still think that this world of endless wonder is important and powerful and full of surprises. I guess I just hit capacity. I had enough danger and doubt and death and destruction, and I need to replace them with a little peace. It felt like I was getting too close to evil, crazy or dead (or Artie) and I don't think it's time for me just yet.

So for nearly six months now, there's been no danger or doubt or death or destruction. There's been a lot of peace. And a lot of time to try different things. And a lot of time to be with the people I love and give myself to them completely, without being afraid for their lives, or mine, or that being with them gets in the way of my job.

Because as amazing as it's been… being part of the Warehouse was – at the end of it – a job.

For nearly six months now I don't have a job. It's a really weird thing, to not have a job. I don't think I'd ever not had a reason to wake up really early in the morning and get started with a whole set of tasks that needed doing. I don't think I'd ever had such lack of structure to my life. It's a little scary, but kind of nice at the same time.

Helena is trying _really_ hard to keep me busy. She thinks that a little boredom will kill me. I know where she's coming from – I don't do bored very well. But she has only seen me bored when it was a result of things majorly messing up my plans. Like when flights get cancelled, or when government officials play idiotic power games, or when Pete touches something he shouldn't. That's a very specific kind of bored that's very different from the kind of bored I'm discovering now.

 _This_ kind of bored is having time to think. To contemplate. To take an idle walk. To read a book I don't like, knowing I don't like it, because it's not about gratification. It's about the experience.

It's not a coincidence that this is the least routine I've ever had and the most calm I've ever been. I still have a routine, though. Wake up at 6am, go for a run – or a walk if Helena joins. But I don't start working straight away. Not even on days that I do work. I usually sit down in the kitchen and have something to read with breakfast, or the other way around. Sometimes I make a pass at breakfast for the both of us, and Helena – who's turned to a right cooking snob – does her best to not criticise my rudimentary skills. It's rare I'll get started with work before 8:30. It's even rarer that we do our tag-team pancake thing. We rarely need to be that speedy and efficient.

It's just after seven now, I'm back from my run, Helena is still in bed and I've just made us tea. Proper tea, loose leaf, like she brews. I finally took the time to learn how to make her the perfect cuppa. I call it 'cuppa' now. I even use a tea cosy. Just thinking about it makes me smile.

I don't try making breakfast. We still have ginger snaps that Helena engineered. Her biscuit making walks the thin line between art and science. She managed to make a name for herself in the surrounding villages over the winter when she baked batches for the local Christmas fundraisers.

Yeah. We do that now. Christmas bake-offs and community galas and summer fetes.

Claudia was shocked a few weeks back when she was given special honours at the local pub because she's a friend of Helena's, the one known for divine biscuits, rather than, say, inventing science fiction, or a time machine, or a grappler.

I place biscuits, tea, milk and cups on a tray and head upstairs to the bedroom. I walk in and she's reading in bed. She looks up at me and smiles. I smile back and she goes back to her tablet.

I put the tray on the bed, next to her, and sit at her feet. Helena looks at me from over the top of her tablet as I commence the tea ceremony. Milk first, then check the tea in the pot. Then pour it – gently – creating a swirling motion in the cup, to heat the milk (or cool the tea) evenly. She arches an eyebrow, scrutinising my actions. I arch an eyebrow back, grinning.

I hold the cup up to her, for inspection. "Why, darling, it would appear that teaching you to brew the perfect cup of tea was a worthy use of both our time," she lowers the tablet and takes the cup from me, holding it in both hands and bringing it to her chest.

"Not so hopeless after all," I smile as I swirl tea into my own cup.

"Never," she breathes in the scent of hot, milky Assam, "it simply takes time and practice," she sips it gingerly. Her expression beams approval. "And it would appear you found the time to practice."

I smile lopsidedly at her and offer her a biscuit. "Busy day?" I ask.

She rolls her eyes. "The Huston presentation," she takes a bite, "are you ready?"

"I'm not presenting," I answer, mouth full of ginger.

"Fine," she places her tea and biscuit on the bedside table beside her. "Am _I_ ready?" she asks and leans back against the headboard.

"You've been ready for a week," I take another sip of my tea before getting up from the bed.

"What do you mean?" she narrows her eyes questioningly. "I only gave you the raw data a week ago."

"It's not rocket science, Helena," I move the tray to the floor and climb back on the bed, stretching myself along her. I'm over the covers, she's under them. "I did your analysis the same day." I slide my hand across her abdomen and lean to kiss her neck.

But then I breathe her in: a hint of fabric softener from the linen, a hint of soap, a hint of sweat, a hint of something that's all Helena. And just like that, a single kiss is not enough. When I exhale her, the cool air breezes across her skin and she releases a soft gasp. So I kiss her again, open mouthed this time, suckling on the crook of her neck.

"Did you—" her breath hitches when I catch a patch of skin between my teeth, "Myka…" she sighs my name with want and leans her head against mine, "Did you aggregate it with the previous—" she sighs again and doesn't get to finish her thought when I brush my lips against the raw, rosy flesh.

I release a low, throaty chuckle, "two," kiss, "five," nip, "and seven years' data," my lips travel up her neckline, "qual and quant," I whisper and drag my teeth against her earlobe, "critically analysed," my lips sweep the shell of her ear, "coded in grounded theory," I mouth just over her ear and my tongue lingers for a ghosting touch.

She exhales a moan that can only mean one thing, and in the split second before my need mirrors hers and removes all thought (bar one) from me, I acknowledge I'm the luckiest person on earth to know that I can turn this stunning woman on with well brewed tea and data-dirty-talk.

She tightens her fist in my hair and pulls me to her. She whispers "I love you," and she kisses me, and I kiss her, hungrily. And that one thought echoes in my mind and grows bigger and bigger until this kiss is not enough either.

I pull the covers towards me and off of her to roll on top of her. She trails kisses down my jaw and neck as she shifts down the bed. "You taste of sweat," she whimpers when I slide between her legs, the smooth, cool material of my running leggings rubs against her very naked and anticipating lower body, "and rain," she presses her tongue against the hollow of my neck, "and grass," she notes, a hint of surprise in her voice.

I register the tone of her voice, but I'm not really paying attention because I'm in the middle of working through that one thought. I growl quietly and my hands journey under her night shirt, pushing it up so I can sweep my fingertips against the underside of her breasts. My mouth claims hers again and her fingers press against the base of my neck. It's an urgent touch, she's pushing me off her.

I pull away and look down.

"Why do you taste of grass?" she asks.

My fingers at her side are not responding to her stop signal and continue to brush her skin, still soft and warm from sleep. The sensation from my fingertips feels like small jolts of electricity. It's hypnotic and I can't help but close my eyes and concentrate on it.

"Myka," her serious tone removes my attention from the mesmerising sensation at my fingertips and focuses it on her. I open my eyes, trying really hard to concentrate on what she is saying, "did you run up the mountain?"

My fingers aren't stopping. Apparently, they have a life of their own. "Yeah," I answer dreamily, "Why?"

"I'm the one who should be asking why," her eyes turn concerned, because to her, when I go across the field and up the mountain I'm going back to the fence, to the moment when I shot Karl. But it's not that anymore.

I go up that mountain because the view from up there is stunning – that's the simple, honest answer, but "Now?" my fingers travel further up and across her chest, then down, to cover her breasts. "Really?" I smirk as I close my hand around her and my thumb brushes an already alert nipple.

She accepts my touch with a bite on her lower lip, worry washes away from her. "I will not let you get away with it so easily," she says but lets go, her back arching, pushing herself off the bed and into me.

I take advantage of the opportunity and peel her shirt off, and mine, and I lay on top of her. We revel in the exhilaration of full body contact for a few seconds, before I start trailing fast and light kisses down her cheek and chest to give her breasts some much needed attention.

I want to pay attention to all of her, though, so I pull my right knee up. It pushes up her left thigh and she is open to me.

I start with teeth and tongue alternating nips and pulls and caresses and dabs onto her right nipple. She becomes sensitised all too quickly, so I turn my attention to her left. Then the supple softness of the swell of her left breast calls for me to adorn it with kisses, grazes and tugs. Then her right must be adorned in the same way. All the while she grinds her core into mine in a slow, seductive, repetitive motion.

She tastes like apples that have just been picked: sun and dust and the promise of sweet flesh underneath. She's intoxicating, and I've only just begun.

Her hands, that were busy in my hair this whole time, travel down. Her left travels to rest on my backside, tracking fingernails across lycra in a maddening pattern; her right takes the path of least resistance between us. I think she's growing impatient. I think I am too.

She grunts as she tries to push past the snug waistband of the leggings. "As devilishly attractive as you are in these form fitting outfits," her left hand joins the effort, "I do take issue with how difficult they are to remove."

I laugh against her breast, my teeth tightening on a sensitive nipple and she whimpers at the sensation. I wrap my lips around the over-worried peak, then press a kiss to calm it.

I lift my head to look at her and she looks – to use her words – bothered. Her hair is ruffled, her skin is flushed, her eyes are dark. She is beyond turned on. She's _wanting_.

I can't help the sly smile that creeps across my lips. The view from down here is stunning, too. I place a chaste kiss between her breasts and lift myself off her and off the bed in a single move.

"Where _are_ you going?" she asks, a little surprised, a little confused.

"I'm coming to your rescue," I grin at her and push my pants down, along with underwear and socks, only to crawl back on top of her and feel her flushed skin against mine, hear the wanton sigh that escapes her lips and let it ring in my head.

Her right hand travels back down my abdomen to find me wet and waiting. I mirror her gesture – two fingers lightly brushing against folds.

When I touch her, she sighs my name in a way that melts me. I'm never tired of how she says my name when I touch her. I lean my forehead against hers so my lips can skim hers, so I can whisper my worship to her as we feel.

I barely move my hand against her. _She's_ moving against my hand and I move against hers. If this wasn't instinct, I'd say I was making a point of reflecting every single one of her movements. Maybe that is the point, but we've touched like this so many times, it's _become_ instinct.

The point I'm actually making is relishing the touch; the feel of her fingers pressed against me, and pressing mine against her. The point is that there is no hurry, no rush. The finish line is some kind of an added bonus that neither of us is even aiming for. The point – right now – is to enjoy the closeness and excitement we inspire in each other.

So for a long, wet and lustful while, we just touch.

This time, Helena's the first to give in, overtaken by her need. She pushes her hand down and enters me with two fingers. The feeling of her inside me overwhelms us both equally and I savour it for a second before I start moving against her again. Before I go inside her.

She sighs when I do, and I move against and inside her at the same time. Her eyes tear open with hunger. She reaches for a searing, searching kiss and bites into my lips. She isn't light or gentle or flirtatious. She _hurts_ me in the most pleasurable way.

I groan a small laugh – I know she is gone now. She is lost in her passion, just slightly out of control. Her teeth on my lips are pulling me out there with her.

We keep a steady pace against each other, pressure building, breaths running shorter, moans climbing in pitch, until there is only movement and the muffled sound of short gasps. It feels like there's only our movement and sound and sensation – god – this amazing sensation, and nothing else besides them exists. I love being lost in this moment, being lost in this feeling and warmth and tension, knowing she's enveloped in them too.

My eyes are closed because I know that the second I open them, the second I look at _her_ lost in this moment – I will fall over the edge. And as blissful as it will be, _this_ is just as blissful. Sometimes… Right now, actually… _this_ is even more blissful.

But then she sighs my name again, like _that_.

So I open my eyes to find hers an inch away from mine, and she touches our lips, and I come and she follows, tumbling over that finish line.

Our movements gradually slow, and we gently pull out (but not away) from each other. We stay touching. Stay close.

I kiss her, indulgently, teasing out every last drop of craving with long sweeps of tongue against lips.

And she sighs.

And I sigh.

I love you, Helena, I think, or say. I'm not really sure.

For the longest time and still.

* * *

Love is a verb

Love is a doing word

Fearless on my breath

Gentle impulsion

Shakes me, makes me lighter

Fearless on my breath

 _Teardrop, Massive Attack (Ft. Liz Fraser)_

* * *

Thank you so very much for reading, for the bookmarks and the reviews.

I hope you enjoyed the ride.

I realise that the ending might annoy some of you. Either way – I'd love to hear about it. :)

I give thanks to all the amazing writers of this fandom. You are all an inspiration. If you look hard (in some cases it isn't that hard…) you will find doffs of the hat to many of my favourite fics.

(and an extra massive thanks to Roadie and Rachel452).

In case anyone was wondering (and as this is the tradition around these parts) the title of the fic is from Sia's song Numb: "It has to end to begin".

watch?v=3ammsX8cSC4

The title of this chapter is the title of the song Claudia makes Myka listen to, Eden by Sara Bareilles:

watch?v=FGYZNq87gHY

…and the fic ends with a piece of Massive Attack's Teardrop:

watch?v=BAVUPu7URbc


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